Brightest In The Sky
by Eriala
Summary: Book five AU. Companion to "If This Were A Riddle." Questions lead Bella to Sirius, and love of her lord leads to her downfall. Not good!Bella, but human!Bella. Bellatrix/Voldemort. Slight Bella/Sirius. Rating for torture, nongraphic sex.
1. when i'm far away

disclaimer:: i do not own.

warnings:: nongraphic sex, language

a/n:: i titled this story as such because sirius is, after the sun, the brightest star in the sky. it is a companion and/or sequel of my fic "if this were a riddle." it is not in any way compatible with "the dopplebeater defense" or "one of the few." what's more, it is an au. just thought i'd clear that up, in case you didn't hear me the first time. it is primarily bella/voldie, but sirius plays a significant role, so i decided to label it sirius/bella as well.

this prologue picks up near the end of book five; bella's interactions with her master leave her with questions that she believes only sirius can answer. rather than fight in the battle of the department of mysteries, she waits in the hallway by the courtrooms, and coerces her cousin to join her.

**IMPORTANT**: when i first posted this chapter, it was only a page long. i have since significantly added to it, making it more presentable and explanatory. if you've only read the original, i highly suggest that you read the new version… it clears a lot of things up.

* * *

::brightest in the sky::

::prologue::

::when i'm far away::

bellatrix is weak. like an insect under a rock that has just been overturned, a gaunt, skeletal, crawling thing, who lives in the basement of an inn and feeds off plates of god-knows-what that the bartender brings down for her. some days she is pretty sure it's dog food on that chipped ceramic plate, but she eats, because it is one of the few things she remembers how to do.

her husband has left the equation; their master has sent him away on a mission, and he has not returned. she suspects this was done intentionally. the basement is always lit dimly, not bright because after years without much sunlight it's all too dazzling and she can't take it. she thinks she's been here months, but it could have been five minutes or an eternity, in prison she lost track of time, and learned that time itself is irrelevant.

at first she could not stand, having spent the final five or so years of her captivity lying on the cold stone floor, unmoving, surrendering to the despair that mingled with the icy wind and wafted from cell to cell.she can stand upright, now; the desolation has begun to lift; and she has noticed that she is the only one here.of all her fellow inmates, she is the feeble, the fragile, the one who lives like a starved rodent and has not the strength to serve the lord she loves and for whom she had waited all those years.

he treats her delicately, but with a sort of reserve; it is not in his custom to be gentle, so he compromises with distance. this both relieves and horrifies her, and she fears that she will never be his dark jewel again. consequently when he comes for a visit, she does her best to be a young mistress again, and soon they fall into a warped version of the pattern they once fit.

in this adaptation of their former glory, each interaction leaves her sinking to the packed-dirt floor, exhausted and drained, with hardly the energy to re-clothe herself in that same black dress that he awarded her upon her freedom, now tattered and filthy.

she lives a half-life, in a waking dream, unable to come to terms with the concept of freedom; she is a living martyr, the ghost of a sacrifice, her mind still trapped in a stone cell so small she could not lie down flat. it has affected her pose and stance, left her elegance as a mere phantom, her smile no more than a memory.

* * *

::don't add up to anything::

she is used to him by now: to his cheeks that are firm and slick beneath her pale fingers and his lips just the same, to the body that isn't quite the right shape, brawny and slender in all the wrong places. he has begun to snuff out the candle each time before they begin, taking her in total blackness that reminds her of the prison at night and makes her shiver with fright because in the end she is only human.

time passes, as do all things; a day comes that he stands against the stone wall of her basement, her self-inflicted prison, tall and righteous, magnificent, and she before him, only inches separating the two of them. there is no illumination.

"calm, my bella," he insists, "calm. only the weak fear darkness."

"yes, my lord."

"on your knees, now."

she does not respond because she does not need to. his robes billow before her and she, blind in the all-consuming blackness, fumbles to get past them. her master offers no assistance. finally, there is the hem at the bottom; she lifts, bunches, holds up a fistful of cloth but he does not accept it. she lets the fabric fall, but with her body on the inside; her steady hands she runs along his legs, higher and higher until she finds that which she seeks. her lips part.

there she is, like a child beneath its mother's skirts, drinking him as though he is water.

::why don't we do it::

a day comes when by force and in secrecy he brings her upstairs, to a room that holds both memories and a mirror.

a mirror is nothing in the dark, but everything once he lights the candle on its bracket in the corner and she is clarified in its dancing light.self-consciously, she licks her lips, swallows, flares at her less-than-pleasing reflection, dark lips and thick black lashes over matching sunken, red-rimmed eyes. hair in knots and tangles, robes ripped.

"my stunning, striking bella," he sneers. "ironic, no? my prize, my beauty… ruined and wretched, all in my name. one would think that with the passing weeks, loveliness would return, scrawniness would leave. you are not my beauty anymore. prove to me that you are still my warrior."

she bows her head reverently, eyes on the bottom hem of his robes and therefore not on the gift he holds out to her; "take it, my bella," he commands, and she looks up; a stick of wood, three times the length of her palm. it has been almost a decade and a half since she has held her wand – and her wand it is, just as she remembers it. she does not inquire how it came into his possession, but instead clutches it like a child with a favorite toy and feels warmth spread up her thin left arm as she grasps her beloved weapon.

"i will not disappoint you," she assures him, and she does not like her voice anymore, it is more hoarse than she remembers, as though she has screamed one too many times and the silkiness of tone has collapsed to make way for dust.

"that remains to be seen," says her master.

* * *

::any true devotion::

she thinks of sirius.

as she rides the lift down to the department of mysteries, crowded in with her lord's lesser followers, she wonders. she wonders if she was ever more than her master than a pretty face.she wonders if this is why he now only takes her in darkness. she wonders why she crumbled, while the others stayed strong.

she remembers. across the hall and one door down was sirius; the hallway was narrow, and the cells tiny, and when famine thinned her arm so that it could slip through the bars up to her shoulder, she would reach for him. "come on, siri," she would toy with him, "take my hand. you haven't touched another living being in months."

for factually what must have been years, he ignored her, sitting in silence with his knees to his chest. when finally he spoke, it wasn't to her, and it was with that broken tone she recognized from years of desperate prey. he doesn't say, "please," as her victims might; he calls for prongsie and moony and: "lily!" he crawls forward and stretches out his hand.

she takes it.

he blinks in confusion. "lils?"

"yeah," she replies quietly, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. "that's me."it is not until he drifts into unconsciousness that she pulled her hand away, flexing her fingers uncertainly.

he swears at her for it when he awakes to reality, hours or days later; she lets him rant himself into silence, and for the first time ever, her characteristic smirk, her arrogant, disdainful fascia begins to fall away.

he should not be shouting vulgarities at her like there is no tomorrow, because there _is_ no tomorrow, and she may as well be lily potter, hell, she might be alice longbottom, because she is gone as far as them, locked in a romance with cells of stone and metal, with the dark figures like congealed smoke that drift down the corridor, with the one long shaft in the ceiling that lets in only the faintest trickle of sunlight, so that she can vaguely make out the shape of her hand as she holds it before her face.

she is trapped in azkaban, no matter how she looks at it. and so, logically, she needs to speak to one who has escaped.

* * *

::then it fell apart::

what happens is, they exit the lift and she tells lucius and the others to go ahead; she would like a chat with her cousin when he arrives. she waits in silence and in secrecy, bated breath and anticipation. once her companions are gone through that fateful door, she waits for the clatter of the lift, and then hears it. her fingers tingle as they clutch her wand. it feels too thin in her hand.

by some stroke of luck, he is the last of the group, ignorant of her position, masked by darkness, in the entryway to the courtrooms. quickly and soundlessly she casts a rapid "_silencio"_ and grabs him from behind; he kicks and struggles in her thin arms until she spins him around to face her. closing his moonlight eyes and reopening, he says without noise: "harry, no, no, harry, no."

not a soul has noticed his absence. The others' footsteps recede toward the desired door as she takes his hand and leads him down the steps and through an unlocked door. courtroom ten. so many memories. she lifts the spell and hopes he won't shout, which he doesn't. "don't do this now, trixie," he begs, "i have to get to harry, don't you understand?"

pressing him against the door she's closed behind them, she has a thousand proclamations and declarations and statements; not to mention, questions to ask, things she needs to know. but she is who she is, when it comes down to that. and she, being she, breathes, "when did you last fuck a girl, siri?"

now is not the time, and he says as much. now is not the place. they belong in battle, two lost heroes on opposing sides of a discrepancy that will never end.

"siri, my darling, there _is_ no time for us," she informs, she enlightens, her words fraught and gasping, because he is not what she had expected; that is, he is not free, and his eyes say as much. there is no time for those estranged enemies still nursing love affairs with a shadowy rock in the sea.

before she knows what is happening he is inside of her but he is not as he once was, his hair stinks of alcohol and dog, the skin that brushes hers is grimy as he crashes to the ground and brings her with him, the stone floor that once sealed her fate now becoming their marriage bed. after a while he blurs so that he could be her master, could be her husband, could be a fence post for all she can tell.

though she does not remember tiring, slumber comes swiftly, out of nowhere, as if by enchantment, and she flies like a bird to the lands of oblivion.


	2. i will go down with this ship

disclaimer:: i still don't own it. i promise to inform you as soon as i do.

a/n:: thank you to ooosk for a lovely first review; thank you to all my other readers. i love you all, and please remember all you have to do if you want to see your name in my thank-yous is press the blue button and leave me a review. i can't thank you if i don't know who you are. :p

* * *

::brightest in the sky::

::i::

::the joke is on::

when unconsciousness leaves she at first believes that she is home again; home in her little cell on a rock in the sea, with bars and stone to separate her from husband and cousin and others. next she thinks she's back at hogwarts, in the headmaster's office, seated in a chair before his desk with those little whirring golden instruments and the phoenix that always glares as though it can see straight through her.

once fully alert, she realizes that her surroundings are a combination of both fantasies; that is to say, a cage in the corner of said office, an enclosement clearly meant for a dog or large rodent. the old fool sits in an overstuffed armchair in the opposite corner from her cage, observing her with blue eyes that do not twinkle. "bellatrix," he greets impersonally, his voice chill.

sitting up, coarse hair falling across her face, she snakes her fingers though the metallic mesh door of her prison, meeting his gaze head-on. in the room lit by gas lamps and candles, she feels pale and shriveled, unclean, unworthy; without her wand she is powerless as a child. an old man's stare that at first seemed cold she now realizes is more, it is pitying and disappointed, and she hates it with every fiber of her being.

"he betrayed me," she states, and it is not a question.

a thin, humorless smile comes to the headmaster's lips. "no, bellatrix," he affirms sadly, "sirius only wanted to save you."

her head tilts to the side; her lips are parted, and she licks them but does not try to form words. eyes wide, brows arching, she fidgets and tries to get more comfortable on the metal sheet that is the floor of her cage. it is softer than stone, but shiny enough to echo her blurry reflection, which she does not like and so does not look down.

her own reflection frightens her. she has been self-conscious for two decades, ever since the day a man who named himself after death promised her fame and glory if only she would spend one evening with him in a dingy knockturn alley inn. though they did nothing that night, in comparison to what fireworks would someday flash between the two, it was enough that dirt and darkness filled her pores and would never leave.

"what do you last remember?" dumbledore inquires.

she says, "sirius," and nothing more.

he nods. "sirius brought you here, after the battle," he explains.

"battle?"

"yes. i assume that he stunned you, and dragged you away from the fighting. he's always believed in you, bellatrix. he's told me as much."

she does not admit that she was not even a presence in this so-called battle. she does not know what to think. "the others…?" she asks slowly.

"azkaban."

"you know about sirius." it isn't a question.

"i know many things about sirius. if you are referring to his innocence, than yes, i know. as will the world, within a few days. pettigrew was captured after the battle."

rolling her eyes, she absentmindedly rattles the metal of her cage. "stupid rat," she mutters mindlessly, "he wasn't supposed to come. he's earned whatever he gets for disobeying our lord."

silence.

"i am afraid that i'll have to move you," dumbledore explains carefully. "it wouldn't do for the ministry to find you here."

at first she thinks she's heard wrong. "you're hiding me from fudge? i never thought you had it in you, old man."

"the minister and i have a discrepancy in our thinking. i believe in second chances." dumbledore makes a quick movement with his left hand; her cage vanishes, leaving her sprawled on his carpet. "i believe in choices," he continues. "you have two. behind my desk are both a window and a closet."

she thinks of her master, of the displeasure that will fall on her like acid rain if she ever meets with him again. she thinks of the cold, hard ground coming up to meet her, of her body slumped on the green grass below the window. she thinks of sirius, and passion, and desire, and the icy, solid floor of the courtroom where he took her bait, then backstabbed her.

bellatrix hides herself in the closet, beneath the pile of blankets she finds there, like a child playing hide-and-seek.

* * *

::nothing wrong, nothing right:: 

when the door opens, she cannot let herself breathe, she cannot be discovered. though some may call her harsh and cruel, she has a soul; indeed, it burns fiery within her, and she must safeguard it at all costs. her earliest memory is of sirius, of his tiny infant's hand that she took on her own and kissed, gently; she does not want it all to end with another sort of kiss.

the door closes, but someone is inside with her, pulling at the blankets that mask her, breathing heavily in the stuffy air. "trixie?" that person asks. "bella-boo, it's me."

she knows just who it is, because only one person would call her by such heinous nicknames. "sirius?" she asks. "i thought they'd keep you at the ministry."

"dumbledore requested that i be released into his custody for the night."

"i hear you're going to be a free man." her voice is still muffled beneath all her coverings, and he digs her out as one might dig a spare sock out of a hamper of clothes, roughly, blindly; the closet is, after all, black as pitch.

"my trial is tomorrow," he informs her.

"lucky you." she is in no congratulatory mood. "why did you bring me here?"

"would you prefer azkaban?"

"yes."

a pause.

"just a selfish whim, i suppose." she can hear him shrug. "the ministry would return you to prison at least, at most kill you or steal your soul. i suppose i thought i could find a punishment more fit."

"or else you love me," she replies with casual sarcasm.

"it's a possibility, trixie, i won't deny that."

"you shouldn't be here. aren't you missing out on some sappy moment with that wretched godson of yours?"

"yes."

"you'd give that up for me? you gave up saving his sorry arse for me; but i guess that was all part of some sodding courageous plan to bring me here and teach me the error of my ways. or else you were ashamed, and brought me here to cover your tracks."

"neither," he states evenly. "i believe in second chances."

"you and that goddamn headmaster. i should have jumped when he gave me the opportunity. but you're lying, aren't you? you just saved me for one more good fuck."

"believe what you like, bella-boo," he says; his calm is forced and she's clearly struck a nerve. he throws the blankets back on her in a heap, and though she can't see his expression, her own is a dangerous smirk.

he exits; the door is slammed.

* * *

::i will go down with this ship:: 

she waits out the time, not knowing if it is night or day, parched and famished and glistening with sweat beneath her mound of covers. as she waits, a numb realization comes to her, that she may never hear her lord's voice again; may never again be one with him, his strength and power and lust filling her as she wraps her arms around his bare back and calls him master.

and so she remembers.

in her memory, she is seventeen again, having escaped her family home by climbing out the bathroom window, pale as a corpse, dressed in black and fishnets with hair in a messy braid, strutting around knockturn alley and smirking at passing wizards. she enters an inn, one that she frequents each night after her parents and sisters sleep. having graduated school one month previous, she feels invincible, almost floating as she walks like an angel of death up to the bar.

seating herself at a stool, she is unsurprised to hear his voice ordering her a firewhisky and his hand flicking a coin toward the bartender. his presence does not surprise her. they have met here often, never speaking, hazarding glances when the other is not looking. tonight, though, it seems he has other plans. when her drink is served, before she can take a sip, she feels a hand on her leg; it makes her skin tingle.

"you may call me voldemort," he informs her smoothly, sliding his hand down her leg to meet her own.

shivering, she curls her fingers around his palm, slithering off of her chair and lifting her firewhiskey in her other hand. following suit, he mirrors her actions, taking his own drink in one hand and standing, dropping her hand to wrap his arm around her back.

"what can i call you, my beauty?" he questions silkily, and it could be a tacky moment but it is not because his eyes like black holes are at one with her own, and she realizes for the first time how alike they are, imprints of one another, matching eyes and hair and lips.

"bellatrix." she never uses her full name, but for this glossy stranger anything is possible.

"bellatrix." he does not try to shorten it, for which she is grateful; in his arms, with his sleek lips forming her name, she could be a queen. he gets the attention of the bartender; we would like a room, he requests, and they are given a key, told a number, and pointed toward a nearby hallway, no questions asked. "bellatrix," he says again. "i've waited long for this moment." key enters lock, and their room is opened. it is a dingy place, moth-eaten curtains, ratty blanket on narrow bed. he closes the door. "i have been waiting for this moment," he says again.

she is innocent. a daughter of such high society does not willingly give herself away to just anyone. perhaps he knows this, because he sits casually on the bed and she joins him. "my lady," he calls her, and his grin is refined, charming.

she acts along. "my lord," she names him. "who are you?"

"do you really want to know?"

she does. she wants to know everything. she wants his life story; she wants his life to merge with hers, forever and ever. her mindset is a blend of schoolchild with crush and princess on marriage night. "not right now," she tells him, "there are more… pressing matters."

"i thought so."

when his tongue enters her mouth she thinks she will burst or implode with the power she can taste in his mouth. he takes his time, and she keeps her eyes open, taking in every inch of the room, how one wall is covered by a mirror, reminding her of a dancer's studio, how a single candle flickers in its bracket on the wall.

busying himself with his hands beneath the black fabric that clings to her curvy form, he says, "i will make you my queen. this inn will be our castle, and when you are married we shall create such fire as the world has never seen. mistress bellatrix, who is your master?"

young and naïve, she believes he means he will be married to her. she replies to him: "you are."

"on your knees before your king," he commands, not for the last time. his eyes glimmer with colors not before seen, blood red and burgundy.

she obeys without question.

twenty years later, hidden in her enemy's linen closet with her future unsure, she remembers the inn that he and so many of his inner circle frequented, and were always offered service and secrecy without question, the unofficial headquarters of a dark movement. she does not visit that room again with her memory, at least not for tonight; other recollections are not so pleasant; and after all, maybe if she falls asleep, he will forgive her in her dreams.


	3. like the back of my hand

disclaimer:: once again, i do not own.

a/n:: please be patient with me for these first few chapters; this is all just background and setup for when the actual plot (or plotless ramble, if it goes the way of my other fics) will begin.

thank-yous:: to ooosk, once again, it's great that you've stuck with me for two whole chapters, and i hope you'll continue! thank you to x-slytherincess-x as well, because new reviewers are always fun. :)

* * *

::brightest in the sky::

::ii::

::out of element::

"rise and shine, bellatrix," says a hushed voice, the hoarse tone of an old man.

"headmaster," she greets, not knowing what else to call him. she pushes her blankets off and crawls out of her hiding place to find herself in an office bathed in daylight. "what time is it?"

"noon. you are quite a sleeper, bella."

she does not like that he dares call her by a nickname, or speak to her so casually. she needs to plan. the sooner she returns to her master, the less punishment, the less temper, the less pain. "siri's trial – " she begins.

"is over."

"and?"

"he has been given a full apology, a large sum of money, and a confinement to my office until his sanity is confirmed. once psychological testing is over, if he proves himself capable, he will be granted guardianship of harry potter and freedom to live life as he wishes."

"where does that leave me?" the dependency in her tone disgusts her.

"until further notice, it leaves you in my closet, bella."

"until i starve?"

"not at all," he assures her. he gestures toward his desk, where lies…

"a sandwich?" she looks to him incredulously.

"a peanut butter sandwich," he confirms lightly.

"i am a daughter of the noble house of black, wife of the heir to the lestrange family, right-hand to the dark lord himself," she begins.

the old fool cuts her off. "i can alert fudge to your presence at any time i chose. are you hungry, or are you not?"

grudgingly she lifts the offending food from its plate and takes a bite. it tastes amazing, perhaps because she has not eaten in over a day. "thank you," she murmurs resentfully.

"you are quite welcome, bellatrix."

a thought suddenly occurs to her. "where is sirius?" she asks.

"he is with harry. for one of the last times, i fear," dumbledore adds sadly.

"what?"

"as i said. psychological testing, given by healers handpicked by fudge to prove that he is unbalanced and must be locked away from society, so that the world can never know how wrongfully our government has treated him."

bella winces. for once, she sympathizes. she takes another bite of her sandwich, and chews thoughtfully. "why do you let that git run the country?" she inquires dejectedly, leaning against the windowsill. every few seconds her fearful eyes flick toward the door.

"i am a teacher. it is my job to ensure that no more children grow to be… gits, as you put it."

"you can hardly blame me for wanting to put a more appropriate ruler in his place. i'm leaving as soon as you turn your back, old man. the dark lord needs me."

he regards her skeptically. "i don't like you, he says slowly. i don't respect you. i don't feel comfortable with you in my office, so close to my students. but you're no fool, and you have something your master does not."

"what would that be?" she questions scathingly, finishing the last of her meal.

they hear the patter of footsteps beyond the door; the headmaster gestures her back to her hideaway, where she is careful to make not a sound. the mark, the skull and snake on her arm, which began to throb during her conversation with the old man now burns with a blazing fire that reminds her of her master. the pain feels warm and friendly, as though he is here with her, embracing her slender form and calling her his most loyal, his most faithful.

* * *

::it wasn't much:: 

there must be a silencing spell on the door, because though the wood is thin she can hear only white noise from beyond. that suits her fine. if azkaban gave her one thing, it was the ability to wait out long periods with no one but herself for company. and, after all, this place has one superiority to prison: her happy memories remain, mingled with the bad, a eddying and churning mixture of all life's experiences that she can bask in to her heart's content.

she is not a dark witch for nothing. black memories are appreciated as much as any. like the remembrance of the dawn when she reenters her family house after that first night with her lord, his taste, vile and wonderful all at once, still clinging to her tongue. narcissa, of course, ambushes her before she has climbed three steps, taking her hand and, finger to her lips, tugging her older sister down the stairs into the kitchen, the forbidden territory where the two girls have often met to trade secrets.

"you're dressed like a harlot," narcissa says, "but that's nothing new."

bella would ordinarily slap her sister, but instead she just laughs; softly, so as not to wake the house-elf who sleeps on a sack of flour by the fire, a shrunken, ugly baby elf in its arms. "i feel like one, too," bellatrix says. "if this is what you and the malfoy boy have been doing behind the hogwarts greenhouses, cissy, i understand the attraction."

"tell me everything," says cissy, "you go off almost every sundown but this is the first time you've returned with shining eyes."

bella refuses. holier-than-thou, she makes a great show of stretching and yawning. "tired," she explains, "long night."

"just tell me his name."

she says it in a reverent tone, hushed, respectful: "voldemort."

now, back in her closet, bellatrix misses narcissa with a fiery passion that eats her up from the inside. she misses braiding those long, blond tresses before parties and clutching one of those slim, waxen hands as they eavesdrop outside of their father's study.

most of all, she misses standing in that circle, sister to one side, master to the other, before he calls for some loyal wizard or other to stand before him. "you've done well," he congratulates the lucky man, who grovels at their lord's feet. "rise, and i shall reward you."

"to serve you is prize enough, my lord," the wizard insists, but most likely only for show, because he is in all likelihood already eyeing the two sisters out of the corner of his eye.

"nonsense," insists voldemort. "bella? i believe this fine man has earned himself a good time."

* * *

::hold your love over my head:: 

she does not realize how much she fears the dark until the door is opened once more, her covers unwrapped, leaving her thin and gasping at relief to be once more in daylight.

"lestrange," sirius greets, and he's colder than he was last time. "we need to talk."

"speak for yourself, black," she replies evenly.

in no mood to bargain, he grabs her roughly by the arms, hoists her to her feet, and drags her, hobbling, across the empty office and into a magnificent bedroom, hung with tapestries and curtains in every color of hogwarts, crimson and green, blue and yellow, gold and silver.

"the great fool's bedroom itself," she marvels, then a thought comes to her. "hey, siri, want to get naked in the headmaster's bed?"

"and they question _my_ sanity," her cousin grumbles, hauling her through a nearby door and into a humbler abode, decorated all in black and white, with twin bed built into the opposite wall, a large drawer beneath it. "welcome," says sirius. "take a seat."

"i don't take orders from blood traitors," she insists; she has barely finished speaking when she finds herself lifted off her feet and set roughly down on a chair beside the bed. after dropping her, he sits himself cross-legged on his pillow, hands clenched in his lap, breathing heavily.

"we need to talk, he says again."

"i heard you the first time."

"i need to know why you did what you did."

"i've done many things, sirius."

"let me specify, then. i need to know why you came to me, in the hallway by the department of mysteries, two days ago."

"you want to know what i see in you, is that it?"

"no. well, you can start there if you'd like."

"i don't know where to begin. i don't appreciate your courageous gryffindor spirit, or your insipid sense of morality. your disloyalty to your family is disgusting, and the fact that you could be tricked by such a pathetic rat as pettigrew even more so. but ever since i was a girl, i've had this obsession with you. and i couldn't rest until i'd had just one taste of you. it was just curiosity, i suppose. you probably have some heroic sob story of why you took my lure?"

he remained frozen throughout her speech, but loosens again when she concludes. he explains slowly: "i thought… if we both entered the battle… i had a bad feeling… one of us wouldn't make it out alive. and i would never know who you really are. i would never know you as anything more than the cousin who was too good to spend time with me, or the legendary criminal, worshipper of a wizard whose head is so far up his arse that i doubt even his most loyal followers could see his face."

"if you're trying to get in my good books, siri," she tells him wryly, "you're not going about it the right way."

"i don't care what you think of me," he answers. "i made this stupid mistake of bringing you here, from this fucking ridiculous gryffindor idea that i could save your soul, literally or figuratively, and i'm just asking you to not let it have been all for nothing."

"everything's for nothing in the end, sirius black," she informs him, and her tone is caught somewhere between regretful and scathing. "we live and then we die, and all we can hope is that we've done the right thing, and made a lasting impression."

he shakes his head; it seems his every movement causes him pain. "i can't believe i actually fucked you," he says, and the words ring just as true for her.

* * *

:: like the back of my hand:: 

back in her prison, her home, her closet, she finds that the silencing spell on the door has been lifted, and lifted for a reason. that which she hears makes her understand that she is truly a prisoner; with the newfound knowledge gained from eavesdropping, she could take a huge leap toward winning the war for her master. obviously, her captors will let her do no such thing.

there are two voices: dumbledore and severus. remembering the burning sensation in her arm earlier today, she realizes that he has just returned from a meeting of the inner circle. her blood runs cold as she realizes that she is not the only betrayed.

"sherbet lemon, severus?"

"no, thank you, headmaster. i have pressing news."

the old man does not reply, but clearly gestures toward the younger to continue.

"bellatrix lestrange is missing, snape says abruptly. she apparently stayed back from the main group when they entered the department of mysteries, and was not seen at all during the battle. it is unknown why lestrange chose this course of action; the dark lord – "

"voldemort," corrects the haughty old fool.

"the dark lord," severus snape repeats. "the dark lord believes that she intended to ambush the order as they left the lift."

dumbledore shakes his head. "none of the order have mentioned anything of the sort," he lies calmly. "is it possible that she deserted?"

"bella? the dark lord's prize whore, desert?"

she winces to be called such. if she finds her way back to her master, well, she would be delighted to get her revenge by alerting him to one of his so-called favorites' spying nature.

"possibly she has seen the error of her ways," the headmaster suggests. through the wooden door, she glares daggers at him. there is no error in her ways.

snape lets out a humorless laugh. "i would like to speak to black," he states abruptly. "he spent twelve years just a few cells away from her – he's bound to have some idea of what goes on inside her twisted mind."

"just a moment," says the elderly fool, sharply. "wait here."


	4. might be my only right

disclaimer:: believe me, i don't own it. if i did, well, the fifth book would have ended more like this.

a/n:: thank you to my fabulous readers. next time, it'd be really cool if a couple of you could review. also, if you haven't read my new-and-improved prologue, i strongly advise it. i kept my two original scenes, but added others so that they make more sense, so... yeah, you should definately read it.

* * *

::brightest in the sky::

::iii::

::tell the sweetest storyline::

the opening of a door. a cry of: "bloody hell!" calm footsteps enter the office once more. "sirius will be here in a moment," dumbledore assures the spy, "he is changing his shirt."

severus coughs harshly. "spare me the details, professor," he insists, with a hint of fear and trauma in his tone.

"albus," the headmaster corrects him, almost fatherly. bella is disgusted.

more steps, these padding lightly, most likely barefoot. "well, i'm here," announces sirius's voice, with an unforgiving quality to it, most likely directed at his archenemy.

"we were just discussing the disappearance of your darling cousin, bellatrix lestrange," snape drawls coldly.

there is a silence during which she is sure he is going to spill. then: "disappearance?" questions sirius.

"yes. as in, gone. nowhere to be found. vanished. missing."

"well, that's a surprise," says sirius, in perfectly contrived bewilderment. "never thought she would leave her precious master."

"let me be blunt," says snape. "you spent nearly twelve years listening to her scream in her sleep. do you have any leads on where she might have gone?"

"i dunno," says sirius, most likely shrugging. "if i were her, i suppose i'd head for the caribbean. she could use a tan."

"be serious, black!" barks severus.

"i_am_ sirius black," comes the answer, and bella holds her hand over her mouth to stifle a chortle. that one never gets old.

"what was that?" snape asks abruptly, and she cannot move or breathe, because she knows he is most likely staring straight at her closet.

"what?" asks dumbledore lightly. bellatrix imagines that sirius has clammed up; he was never one to keep secrets.

"that noise," breathes snape, and maybe it's just her but he sounds suspicious.

dumbledore replies airily, "a portrait must have sneezed, that's all."

"it was coming from your closet, professor."

"oh! i had quite forgotten about those. a new creation of hagrid's. he's bred pixies and garden gnomes. i made them a nest on the floor of the closet. would you like to see?"

she hears him back up a step. "no, that's really…"

"aw, come on, snivellus, they're quite cute, and their fangs aren't nearly done growing," sirius perseveres brightly.

snape scoffs. "i will pass, thank you. this meeting had a purpose. we must locate mrs. lestrange before she becomes a hazard to the general public. and you, black, need to assist us."

there is a pause. "well," sirius says at last, and bella can tell he's having fun with this, "i know she always loved madam puddifoot's, in hogsmeade. one of her old haunts. you might ask the management there." this time, bella more carefully masks her snigger.

"i?" questions severus snidely. "you're a free man, remember? your days of staying at home and letting us do the work are over. you have to learn to pull your own in this world again."

"you are mistaken," sirius informs him, flat out. "until further notice, i am unbalanced and not allowed to mingle with the general population. fudge's orders. have fun at puddifoot's, snivelly."

luckily – or not so much – there comes a knock on the door, and someone strides across the room to answer it. "potter," snape greets coldly. he then addresses dumbledore. "i take my leave, headmaster. perhaps you and black may discuss other… leads."

"of course, severus. take care." the door slams. "harry, why don't you take a seat?"

there is no sound to imply that he follows these orders.

* * *

::might be my only right::

"harry? have you had a vision?"

vision? the dark lord would not be foolish enough to allow the boy to enter his mind again. it is out of the question.

"no," says the boy, and bellatrix relaxes before she realizes how tense the thought made her. "i…" she can sense his nervousness. "i wanted to see sirius." she can hear those soft, barefoot steps as her cousin approaches his godson.

"harry?" the ex-convict questions. "what…?" bella scorns the caring in his tone.

"i was just thinking about you." his voice is far too timid for his fifteen years. it seems he has no concept of how to show affection at all. "they're coming to test you soon, aren't they?"

"yeah, kiddo, they are," says sirius, forced excitement in his tone. "and when they're all done, me and you are gonna move into remus's cottage, and he and i are going to get proper jobs to support ourselves and you, and you can invite ron and hermione over anytime you like. it's gonna be a great summer. and no more dursleys, ever. alright, kid?"

bella thinks she can actually hear him pat his godson on the head, and it disgusts her; the boy is a strong adversary of her master, not a dog. but then, her cousin was always more comfortable with dogs than humans.

"you don't have to lie to me, sirius," harry says quietly, and bella feels a newfound esteem for the child. "i'm not a kid. i know they're not going to let you have me."

quick footsteps and the gentle closing of a door signify the headmaster's exit, leaving the other two to their privacy. he neglects, however, to put up a charm to keep her from eavesdropping; on purpose, she suspects.

"hey," sirius say sincerely, "none of that talk, alright? everything's going to work out just fine. it has to. the rat got caught. we've been waiting for this. the rat got caught so we're going to be fine," he explains, as though it is the most logical thing in the world.

bluntly, harry tells him, "i want to say goodbye. just – just in case."

sirius sighs. she can tell he is getting upset. the child must not know his godfather very well, or he would know not to cause any sentimental scene; the man was never good with such circumstances. "harry…"

"my parents never said it." he plays his cards well. "they left and didn't say goodbye or give me anything to remember them by. they were just gone."

"hey," her cousin repeats. bella guesses that the two are hugging, as it seems something her cousin would do in such a situation. she can picture it in her mind's eye, two heads of dark hair pressed together, arms around torsos and silent tears soaking robes. "they're not going to lock me anywhere, no matter what happens. dumbledore's going to ensure that i make a quick escape, and then it'll be just like last time i was on the run. we'll write each other all the time; we'll find some way to meet up every once and a while. it's not ideal, but at least now there aren't any dementors after my soul. cheer up. i love you to pieces, okay, har?

it's not the most eloquent of speeches, and it's not the one that either she or harry wants, but sirius has always been a bit of an adolescent, not ready to deal with big grownup ideas like 'love' and 'forever.' at least he said it, in one way or another.

"okay," says harry.

there is another tapping on the door, signifying a newcomer, then the sound of harry and sirius separating, and that of dumbledore reentering the room. "come in," the headmaster calls.

at least two people enter.

"ah, healer." dumbledore greets the woman by name. "and you've brought friends."

"colleagues." the healer is female with a slightly raspy quality to her voice.

"of course," dumbledore agrees lightly.

"what is the boy doing here?" one of the colleagues inquires imperially. "fudge expressly ordered him to be kept away from black."

"yes, yes, potter's head of house simply sent him up for a quick talk with me." there is the sound of him patting harry's shoulder. "on your way now, young man, and no more snogging in broom closets!"

"yes, sir."

* * *

::and then i tripped::

"can we lock the door, professor dumbledore?" questions the leader of the healers. "wouldn't want any more students interrupting us."

"but of course." bellatrix can hear the headmaster's phony smile. she appreciates his scheming ways more with each passing moment.

"and you won't mind if i check around quickly for eavesdroppers?" this must have been met with raised eyebrows, because the speaker, one of the lesser healers, begins to stutter. "f-fudge, i mean, th-the minister, ah, ordered that, ah, see, that i…"

"there are no death eaters in my closets, i assure you," dumbledore guarantees the man smoothly.

relieved, bella begins to breathe easily again. she does not know what to think of dumbledore anymore; but then again, it hardly matters; he hates her, and she the same to him.

"just l-let me check in, in here," stammers a voice altogether too close for her liking. the door to her hideaway swings open, and she freezes in place beneath her stifling piles of blankets.

"you don't seriously think i am hiding voldemort in my linen closet, do you?" dumbledore asks, coming up behind the healer and closing the door with a snap, at the same time casting a soundless silencing charm, leaving in bella lost in oppressive blackness and quiet.

that was too close.

her master would scold her for being so careless, so dim-witted as to end up in albus dumbledore's closet with a crowd of ministry supporters just feet away. her situation is ridiculous, when she considers it. life was never ridiculous with the dark lord, the dark lord with whom, two decades ago, she had sat in the sitting room of her family's mansion – "bella has a guest," her mother had informed her sisters, after her master had flattered and charmed his way into her parents' respect.

the two of them are seated side-by-side, on an uncomfortable couch in front of a coffee table. on the table your family have assembled a variety of family treasures for show, as well as a dish of chocolates so perfect they look almost unreal.

all of this becomes irrelevant, however, when her fascinating and charismatic master announces softly: "you are the first of my followers, bellatrix. there will be more.

"of course," she agrees graciously.

"and you shall need a name. my army, my lovers… what shall i call you?"

"deathly angels."

the back of his hand brushes your cheek. "we aren't all angels like you, bella. i was hoping for something more… delicious." her lord smirks. he lifts a chocolate and feeds it to her delicately, with perfect ease.

"death sweets," she suggests; it is a silly name, and she knows it, but she has to keep talking because the other alternatives are hardly permissible in her family's sitting room.

"but_powerful_," he insists, "i want something powerful. like death… eaters."

"very nice, my lord," she states respectfully.

she doesn't like the title much, and it never grows on her; but not once has she let him know the truth.


	5. because i am the bright side

disclaimer: as usual, i do not own.

author notes: i understand that the beginning of this chapter comes off as a bit good!bella, but stay with me, because by the end of the chapter she is no such thing.� also, i appologize for the formatting issues in this chapter, namely the random question marks that have appeared everywhere. everytime i delete them, they just come back, so there's nothing i can do.

thank-yous: to x-slytherincess-x for your lovely reviews. i'm honored that you would consider putting my story on your favs.� to all my readers, i very much hope you enjoy this chapter; no matter what you think of it, it would be awesome for you to tell me your opinions.

* * *

:brightest in the sky:

:iv:

:because i am the bright side:

time flies for bella; it soars past in a whirlwind of memories and humid darkness and fear. the hours lose all meaning, but finally she is released; and the sun is still shining when upon her emergence, though it is lower in the sky, tinged ever so slightly with ocher and violet. as she stands and stretches, she notes the old man's creased brows and weary eyes; even his beard seems to sag.

"what is it?" she questions snappishly. "they know i'm here? who? the ministry? the dark lord?"

dumbledore sighs and looks away. "you are as self-centered as ever, bellatrix."

"what?"

"it's sirius. his testing, it… it did not go well."

"that is not unexpected. they're sending him to the loony bin?" she carefully keeps all concern from her tone.

"not yet. there'll be another assessment tomorrow, and probably again the following day."

"he said you're going to help him escape."

"but of course." she has always called him an old man, but he has never looked the part so much as he does now; what should be a positive confirmation seems merely an automatic response.

she voices a pressing concern: "how do i fit in to all of this?"

"self-centered as ever, bellatrix." there it is again, that lie. how can she be self-centered when she has always placed her master first?

"is he in his room?"

the headmaster confirms this, but adds, cautionary: "though i doubt he would welcome your presence just now."

"i'll be the judge of that," bellatrix replies haughtily. she strides off without another word.

her cousin she finds lying on top of his neatly-made bed, hands beneath his head, watching the ceiling. doing the only logical thing, she climbs onto the narrow bed beside him, face down, propped up on one elbow with a hand on his shoulder.

scooting over to make room for her, he comments: "you're disgusting."

she had not expected a warm welcome. "yes. yes, i am. but you don't want to be alone right now."

there is no movement, no reply.

"answer me," she commands, gently, almost kindly.

he pauses. "b.l.?"

tensing in annoyance at the nickname, she lets it slide for now, in light of more important matters. "yes?"

he speaks slowly. "can you not be… you… just for tonight? just be… some girl… who i don't know… someone innocent, who wouldn't… hurt the ones i love… would you just…"

a silence.

"would i just?" she prompts.

"just hold me," he concludes, almost shyly.

it is awkward at first; she repositions herself so that she is half on top of him; he wraps his strong arms around her and she slips hers beneath him, head resting against his neck so that her hair must be getting in his mouth but he does not complain, only inhales and exhales.

how many hours ago was it, that they last risked contact – that he was inside her – that they hazarded a chance at lust with everything to lose?

now, she thinks, they have nothing.

�

* * *

�

:jump over the side:

until he sleeps she holds him, and then she slips away, out of the small, tidy room, through the larger bedroom where the headmaster is absent from his pillow, and then, after peeking through the cracked-open door to confirm that none but the old fool occupy the main office, tiptoeing across the floor to seat herself on the edge of his desk.

"too good for sleep, headmaster?" she taunts lightly.

"standing guard, bellatrix. or, sitting guard, as it happens."

"i have no wand" she reminds him softly. "all you need to do is lock the door."

"no," he corrects her, "not guarding against you. guarding for you. all kinds of wanderers find their way to my door, late at night."

"if you would prefer i return to the closet – "

"no, no. on some occasions, it is good to face our fears. on others, however, it is it is nice to take a break from them."

immediately she clams up. "i don't know what you speak of, headmaster."

"you seem to have an adverse reaction to darkness. possibly more pronounced than that of your cousin. i have my theories of why."

lost for words, she lifts a spindly golden instrument of unknown use and begins to fiddle with it.

"careful with that," he warns, but not before it emits a cloud of thick, black smoke that engulfs her vision and sets her in a panic. gasping sharply, she inhales a lungful of the thick smog and waves her hands in front of her face, gasping, blinded.

he lets the cloud disperse in its own, rather than with a wave of his wand, most likely to prove his point. setting down the golden trinket firmly on his desk, she puts a delicate hand over her mouth to cough harshly. "i suppose you planned that?" she questions spitefully.

"i assure you that i did nothing of the kind. i have no desire to worsen any… phobias."

she scoffs. "phobia? hardly."

"i have the strangest feeling that you might feel differently when in prison once more."

she freezes. "i thought you weren't handing me to fudge."

"your fate is in your own hands, bellatrix. if you chose, i would be saddened but willing to put to waste the time and effort sirius put into saving you, and hand you over; where, if you are lucky, the minister will spare your soul and lock you in a darkened prison once more."

"i wouldn't be there for long," she answers haughtily. "my lord would come to free me."

"is that what you want, bellatrix?" he asks it with candor and sadness and that terrible hint of pity.

sliding off the surface of the desk, she willingly reenters her closet and slams the door so that the brass knob rattles. she sits atop her blankets in the pitch darkness, unwilling to submerge herself in their suffocating heat once more. his words continue to ring in her mind.

_is that what she wants?_

_�_

* * *

_�_

:good as mine:

she dreams. that is to say, she sleeps, and watches a scene from her own life play in front of her, accurate to perfection, every last quote and movement just as it was that day.

she is eighteen again; she was married yesterday, on her birthday, in a dress of white lace, with all her family, and the eaters of death –_death eaters_ sounds too vulgar for her liking – who watched her take her husband's hand and lead him off to bed, where she would reveal to him her proficiency in everything but the deed itself. now, cheeks still faintly flushed with the excitement of it all – blushing bride, indeed – she stands with her hand in her husband's. the dark lord is situated like a statue before them.

"i require your presence, tonight, my bella," her master says softly. he steps forward and cups her chin in his hand, briefly. "i know you will not disappoint me."

"of course, my lord," she assures him bravely. "you can trust me."

"i thought as much," he declares easily, stroking her cheek before stepping back again. "you have a fine wife, rodolphus," he informs her husband thoughtfully. "i am sure she will do well by you."

rodolpus nods reverentially.

"treat her with respect," voldemort lectures. "witches are, after all, most important, imperative to the bringing of young purebloods into the world."

"like cissa," bellatrix offers quietly. "her little malfoy is due any day now."

"i only hope that you may live up to your younger sister's fine example," says their master, and, catching the emphasis on _younger_, she flushes in embarrassment. her little sister, a year her junior, was married at the age of seventeen, nine months previous. bella loves her cissy too much to reveal her jealousy at the girl's outshining her, already serving their dear lord's desires by carrying a tiny pureblood in her stomach, married while still in school, recruiting others to the cause like there is no tomorrow.

the three of them, master presiding and married couple standing by in worshipful respect, are silent for a moment, listening to the creakings of the ancient lestrange manor and the faint howling of the wind outside, before an owl swoops in, lands on her shoulder and spits a letter into her unready hands.

she reads, then drops; the parchment floats to the floor like a feather.

attempting and failing to control her emotions, bella holds her hands in a pyramid over the bridge of her nose, covering her cheeks, and takes several moments to compose herself. when she looks up again, the dark lord has lifted her fallen letter and is reading over it silently. it is the first time she has seen his displeasure aimed at her.

he says quietly, dangerously: "bellatrix, you should go to your sister." his tone frightens her to no end. in the past year, he has never been anything but kind and charming to her, in his own fashion, calling her: _my bella,__my loyal, my faithful_. despite all his subtle inflexibility and obvious gravity, she has never seen him harm another, not even a muggle; he rewards her for her loyalty with gracious gifts and not-infrequent trips to the inn where they first met, where he lets her do to him as she pleases.

"but my lord, you said – tonight - " she gasps, suddenly afraid of him for the first time in her life.

"go to narcissa. i will deal with you in the morning."

she flees.

�

* * *

�

:over the heartache that they say:

awakening before the dream can turn nightmare, bella realizes that she had not even thought to pull her coverings over her body before sleep; anyone happening to open the closet would find one of the world's most infamous witches curled in a ball, dressed in the same black dress she has worn for days on end, hair all a tangle. the concept of a mirror has become far more terrifying than it was on her first day in this purgatory.

the headmaster is no longer in his office; a glance out the window tells her that it is still hours until dawn, as she makes her way to sirius's room, smirking at the sight of the slumbering professor, and realizing with a sort of raging horror that it would be – so easy – to press and hold a pillow – to wait until breath ceased – to throw herself from the window. she freezes. thoughts of glory race through her mind. approaching the bed treading softly as a ghost, she stands by the old man's sleeping form.

making up her mind, but never being one for something so soft as a pillow, she lifts a nearby candle and removes it from its tall brass holder. quivering ever so slightly, a possessed gleam coming to brighten her black eyes, she lifts the makeshift weapon to shoulder height, tries to line it up as best she can with that skull that holds so much, letting a thin, maniacal chortle escape her pale lips.

when she is with her lord once more, in this life or the next, she is sure he will say those words she has heard a thousand times – "i love you" – but now they will come from _his_ lips, he will utter them with a surety that is beyond doubt, and all her sins will be forgotten as they clash with such sparks as to light a fire the world has not yet seen.

she aims.


	6. and tell me i told you so

disclaimer: not mine.

warning: torture.

thank-yous: to x-slytherincess-x for your continued support. to anyone else who is reading this, although i'm lost as to why you're not reviewing. don't like it? tell me! or better yet, tell me why. like it? well, i'd be glad to hear that as well.

a/n: i'm so incredibly sorry about the lateness of this chapter - first i was working on another story, then i was trapped in hicktown with no internet. sorry, sorry, sorry.

is the format (ie. the all-lowercase writing) bothering anyone? just tell me, i would be happy to change it.

* * *

:brightest in the sky:

:v:

:over the heartache that they say, cont'd:

as she strikes, the arms come from behind without warning, wrapping around her torso and pulling her backwards roughly, before she knows what is happening. it is too late to stop her weapon, which due to her new position glances off her leg and makes her hiss in pain. she finds the arms lifting her into midair, and she does not object, but clutches her heavy candleholder to her chest and shuts her eyes.

she is flying though the air, she is an angel, and then there comes the_snap_ of a door being shut and her worn form is laid none too gently on sirius's bed. there she lies panting, for a little while, before rolling over to face him.

blocking the door, he stands with legs lined up with shoulders and wand outstretched in a steady left hand. dark, messy hair spills almost to his shoulders, and his eyes contain nothing but hate. for what seems like hours, they merely stare at one another.

then, almost too quietly for him to catch, she murmurs: "do you remember when cissy had her first baby?"

he blinks. "what?"

"remember? you were in fourth year."

"of course i remember, but what the fuck are you – "

"that was the first time he tortured me." it's hard to say, because she has never thought of her master as one to torture his followers, to torment, to inflict cruelty and harm. he punishes, yes; he gives chastisement where it is due. but the reason she left the excessive warmth and safety of her closet is because she has realized something, something that she cannot put into words.

"i can't believe you," he huffs, adjusting his grip on his wand. "playing the sympathy card when you were going to – "

"I remember how cissa hugged the pathetic, dead little thing and cried…"

"i'm turning you in, when the healers come to test me again in the morning – "

"and it was all shrunken and deformed and she kept saying, 'isn't he beautiful, isn't he beautiful,' and they had to pry it out of her arms…"

"i can't believe i brought you here, i can't believe i actually thought that you – "

"and i climbed in bed next to her and she grabbed my shoulders and asked, 'where is my baby, where are they taking my baby,' and cried into my shoulder while lucius stood over us and said she disgusted him, she was pathetic, how could she dishonor him so."

"lestrange, i don't know what the hell you think you're accomplishing…"

"eventually i calmed her down and got her to sleep, but in the morning the dark lord was there, and he said, 'come with me, bellatrix,' and then, 'i am not pleased with you, bellatrix,' and he took me out of her room and down into the basement of the malfoy manor, to some little underground room, a bathroom – "

"it doesn't matter what happened then," snaps sirius coldly. "what matters is that you are a risk, and you can't stay here because all you think of is your precious master!"

"that's what i'm trying to say," she gasps, sitting up. "i don't think i… i mean, i don't… but i mean, i love…" she blushes drastically, realizing that she is stuttering like an awkward schoolchild.

"spit it out, bella," her cousin orders, and now he is beginning to look alarmed, rather than angry, most likely because he has never seen her stammer so.

"i… don't know," she answers softly, and she doesn't think she's ever spoken a truer sentence.

* * *

:my mistakes keep me awake at night:

sirius does not know what to do with her, that much is obvious. there are many options, but the one he goes for is to lock his door and sit against it with his legs spread out before him, wand in his lap. "trixie," he says forcefully, and then silences.

the uncertainty that she displayed in their previous conversation is forgotten. "aw," she says in her best baby-speech, "does widdle sirius wanna have a heart-to-heart?"

"cut the shit," he snaps, unsmiling. "you clearly haven't been straight with me – "

"haven't been straight? if i wasn't straight, i wouldn't have fucked you, would i?" she mocks.

he groans, exasperated. "you know perfectly well what i mean. it wasn't some stupid schoolgirl obsession. you came to me for a reason."

the reasoning that drove her to him now seems embarrassing and flawed to the extreme. she says nothing.

"was it an assignment? is that it? are you here on his orders?"

"and if i am?" she inquires defiantly.

"but that's not right, is it?" he questions doubtfully. "your darling master would have no way of knowing that dumbledore and i would take you in. were you supposed to kill me, instead of fuck me, is that it? because if that's true, i doubt he'll welcome you back with open arms."

"it isn't," she answers flatly.

his response isn't what she expects; it is a blunt and serious: "do you love him?"

* * *

:and tell me i told you so:

she is eighteen, married to an influential man and the most loyal follower of a powerful dark lord, but she cowers on the floor of the underground bathroom like a house-elf, beneath the sink where he has thrown her, beside the toilet, one hand to protect her face and the other held against the back of her head, throbbing where it has struck the wall. "please," she murmurs, because she has never been so frightened in all her life.

he stands back from her, several feet, an almost respectful distance. "your family has greatly wronged me, bellatrix."

he nudges her leg with his foot as though she is an animal or object; though the action is not brutal, a stabbing pain of shame tears through her. an idea strikes her, an awful but valid way to return to her lord's good favor. "narcissa is a malfoy, now, my lord," she whimpers, trying to keep her voice from quaking. "she is no longer a sister of mine."

he sneers. "you seem to care for her as a sister. or she your secret lover?"

"no, my lord… you are my only love – "

this time, when the foot comes, it makes harsh contact with her chest, which she clutches, her breathing shallow.

"love is a weakness," he states tightly, his eyes hard.

"of course, my lord – i am sorry, my lord – "

"stand up." his tone is icy and she obeys without question, not realizing that he has a knife until he has grabbed her arm, nicked it, tarnishing the bright blade, and held the small wound over the sink, vivid red blood leaking down her wrist and descending – _drip, drip­_ – down the drain.

numb with fear, she watches in fascination. "my lord…"

he interrupts. "that is your love," bella, he affirms frigidly. "trickling down the drain. can you see it?"

gasping for breath, she nods frantically, black hair bouncing with the motion, eyes wide.

"say it," he commands, and there is such power in his tone, such authority, supremacy, that she cannot help but to love it with every filament of her being; her love is like liquid metal that seeps in through her ears and fills her bones, her veins, clotting the cut on her arm. she looks down and realizes that it is still bleeding fiercely. he orders: "promise me that you will never love."

it is the one promise she cannot make; and she was never one to lie to her master. before she knows what she is doing, her head is shaking, a silent _no_.

her golden earrings jangle as her furious master shoves her forcefully to the floor; she can hear her robes tear. by the shoulder he grabs her, dragging her up onto her knees and then ramming her forward by the back of her head, so that she lands with her neck against the ceramic seat of the toilet, her face inches from the water. he forces her head down.

it is cold, icy cold. she is submerged; there is no time to close her eyes, and they sting, but she can't care about that because tendrils of her hair are waving past her clouded vision and they look like seaweed and she wonders about the myth she heard while a child, that the drowned become mermaids. her master is still speaking but his voice is a dull roar, muffled, indiscernible. it is exhilarating, for several seconds, to feel her life-force battling with the water, to feel that powerful hand entangled in her hair at the back of her head, holding her down with ease.

all at once, she needs air. she needs to inhale deeply, to let oxygen fill her lungs, which feel as though they are rapidly deflating, shriveling, emptying as she lets bubbles escape her lips. water is flowing into her through every possible entryway, choking her, her head feels impossibly heavy and, love or no love, she grasps the seat of the toilet with both hands and tries to push her way up but that strong hand is joined by another and her efforts are fruitless.

she is going to die. it is inevitable. she always saw a sort of beauty in dying, but now it is harsh like the gasping breath of water she takes, hoping against hope that magic will turn the water to air but it doesn't and now her lungs are weighty and waterlogged and she clenches and unclenches her hands without the strength to force her way to freedom and her throat feels like it has turned to stone and she can feel her body slowly wilt and go limp, and she is gone.

without warning her head is wrenched up by the hair and there is _air_, so much of it, and she cannot get enough. "thank…" she gasps. "…you. thank you. masss…ter" vigor returns to her body only gradually, but within seconds she can sit up enough to cough water that sprays everywhere and makes her feel sick and filthy. he has not let go of her hair.

"you have greatly wronged lord voldemort, my bella," he sneers derisively. "i couldn't merely _crucio_ you. you are as wretched as a muggle, and shall be treated as such."

she feels all at once dirty and beautiful, the little girl spoiled all her life who has just found herself in a world beyond her belief. this time, when he pushes her head down, she struggles, because it feels good to fight for her life after years of cold silences and hard glares. she struggles, and feels that she is fighting for her love. and then she struggles because she is dying. there is no question about it. this is the end. he let her up last time for parting words, and now it is the end. she doesn't want –

she doesn't want it to end like this. in cissa's basement, in a toilet, in her eighteenth year. none of it does she desire, but it does not matter what she would like, because there is no choice and rather than try to futilely claw her way out of the water she concentrates on not breathing in that heavy water, much of which remains inside her from the previous time. panic sets in. she didn't say goodbye to cissy or dromeda. her parents will say she deserved what she got – or will they even know? will they never hear of her demise because her lover will bury her body in the malfoys' garden, and maybe when he does she'll be just the slightest bit alive so that she will feel the dirt crashing down on her, too weak to dig her way up to the surface just as right now she is sunken like a ship and he pushes her a bit farther down so that she can feel her forehead collide with the bottom.

with no other choice, and because she cannot stop herself, she lets the water slip in through her lips and nostrils and shudders and waves her arms around, aimlessly, begging, shutting her eyes tightly and praying for a miracle.


	7. to everything that i knew

disclaimer: i am not jkr. i think you already knew that.

author notes: i wrote this chapter over the weekend; i've been busy and haven't had much time to work on this story since then. and in order to continue, i would like some opinions. while i know of some key moments that will occur in the plot of this story, and what the ultimate ending will be, that ending could be reached in a number of ways. i therefore would like to take a poll to find out what you lovely readers would like to see in this story. i'm not promising i'll use all of your suggestions, but i would still like to hear your thoughts.

questions: what pairings would you like for minor characters (these will probably include harry, neville, tonks, and remus, among others)? slash or no slash? would you like a bit more blackcest, or should i keep it purely bella/voldie? are there any future scenes in particular that you would like to see? any other characters you would like me to try and bring into the story? any other ideas at all?

thank-yous: to x-slytherincess-x for your continued support (did you get my reviews? i'll try and give you more soon), to my new reivewer katia, and to lazycatfish27 for reviewing a couple of my early chapters. you're all great, and i hope you'll stick with this story 'cause i love to hear from you.

* * *

:brightest in the sky:

:vi:

:an instant brings me change:

"sirius has told me of your murder attempt last night, bellatrix." dumbledore speaks slowly, carefully, as if to a child. "i had hoped from more gratitude from you. he and i have kept you safe from the ministry; we have not harmed you. your behavior is poor repayment for all that we have done for you."

bella would like very much to spit in his face. she does the next best thing, and remains silent.

"obviously you are under the impression that we have wronged you. i cannot think of any other explanation for your behavior."

she lets out a long breath that sounds like a snake's hiss.

"whatever the case, an envoy from your master has a message for you, and i suggest you listen closely."

and the old man calls snape into the bedroom.

the spy takes one look at bella, sitting on sirius's bed, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked, and chuckles slightly, derisively, resentfully. she is something near shocked that the headmaster who only recently hid her from the traitor now announces her presence to him.

"i bring word from the dark lord," he announces. "he believes you have joined dumbledore. i believe that his main reasoning behind his logic was that i told him so. your master has put a price on your head, promising a healthy reward for any who will bring you to him, so that he might make an example of you."

bella's lungs deflate. she is underwater again, begging for air. her master has turned against her. all her years of loyalty are in vain. there is nothing to live for but the slight chance of forgiveness. "you lie," she declares. "the dark lord cares for me far more than that."

"cares for you?" now snape laughs outright.

dumbledore chooses this moment to cut in. "in light of recent developments," he declares, "i have made arrangements for sirius and you to take up residence in an old order safehouse, at least for the time being. it hasn't been used since the last war, but there are protection spells on the dwelling that prevent any kind of muggle-style homicide attempts, and neither of you will have a wand. the safehouse is located in a small scottish muggle town. you will be leaving immediately. any questions, bellatrix?"

her world has turned itself upside-down; her fate seems worse than death. she will need a plan eventually, but right now she simply needs to get her bearings. "no questions, headmaster," she replies smoothly.

* * *

:this land is mine:

sirius is already in the flat when her portkey lands her there. she arrives in a narrow hallway, painted pale yellow, and makes her way down in to a main room maybe half the volume of her childhood bedroom, with a couch, table, chairs, and a funny square apparatus with a shiny front. entering the closet-sized kitchen to find her cousin leaning up against the counter, also yellow, smoking a cigarette, she holds back any comments about disgusting muggle habits and instead informs him: "i haven't been in a kitchen since i was a teenager. cissa and i would hide from our parents in there."

"muggle kitchens are a bit different," he comments, which is exactly what she was about to say. she offers him a half smile, but he isn't paying attention. "there aren't any known wizards in this village, but dumbledore says we have to be careful, just in case."

"what do you mean?" she inquires carefully.

he holds up a pair of scissors. "your hair," he clarifies, when she looks at him blankly. instinctively, she raises her hand, to press her long black locks against her neck. she shakes her head.

"c'mon, don't be difficult, bella," he insists. "we can't have you recognized." she shakes her head; he sighs. "well, you're not allowed outside until you do. dumbledore's orders."

her laughter is harsh, coarse. "little sirikins listens to the big, bossy headmaster," she ridicules coldly.

he shrugs. "say what you like, bella," he informs her. "the door is locked. i have the key."

furious, fuming, she storms away again, away from his cloud of smoke and easy air. the curtains in the main room are drawn, but when she draws them back she discovers a windowsill large enough to sit on, and so does just that, spreading out her legs because she still cannot get over how nice it is to have room to move, to spread out without risking knocking over her piss-pot or a yesterday's plate, now empty of food.

basking in the sunlight that comes in through the glass. the flat is located on a second floor, and she can see muggles entering the floor beneath her, exiting with paper bags from what must be a shop of some sort. the street is paved, and across the way are one-story brick houses, with flowerboxes out front. it's quaint, peaceful, and almost likeable, but she cannot picture living out the rest of her days here.

sooner or later, she must think of an escape plan; but for the moment, she relaxes in the sunshine and wonders lazily if there might be somewhere nearby where she might buy some new clothes; her torn robes are ugly and impractical.

she herself is ugly and impractical, she thinks in disgust. she needs to pull herself together. she needs to find her master and disclose severus as the traitor, work her way back into the dark lord's favor.

and then? and then he will blow out the candle, and in total darkness, do with her as she pleases.

the sun shines just a bit more brightly.

* * *

:life has always been a pretty song:

until the sun sets she sits in that window, watching muggles go about their petty ways, not a one of them glancing up at her. when she hears several voices, none of them belonging to sirius, she jumps down from her perch in a panic.

he is seated on the couch, staring at that shiny black box, the front of which seems to have become a portrait; tiny people are moving and talking there. she does not know what to make of it.

"suppose you've never watched a telly before," sirius comments casually.

she shakes her head.

"takes a little getting used to, i suppose," he muses. scooting over, he pats the couch beside him, meaning for her to sit there. hesitantly, she acquiesces. he informs her: "alright, this is called a soap opera. that woman there, she's married to that man over there…" he points them out. "but she's actually secretly sleeping with her cousin."

she raises her eyebrows at him suggestively, to tell him that it reminds her of someone else she knows, but he just glares at her and returns to the television show.

"now, the man is also cheating…"

this goes on for quite some time, and bella never quite gets the hang of it. she picks at her fingernails and fidgets and finally questions: "does the potter boy know you're here?"

her cousin stiffens. "harry only knows that i'm in a safehouse. he can't write to me, or the ministry could track his letters. he will brought here for visits by order members."

"oh." she pauses. "does he know that i'm with you?"

"no."

she is not finished questioning. "do other order members know i'm here?"

he scoffs. "of course not," he scolds.

a pause. "sirius, i… don't like being locked up." she speaks to her knees. "i've only been outside once since we escaped from… from, you know." embarrassed that she is too weak to even speak the name, she blushes faintly and hopes he does not notice. when he doesn't answer, she presses on: "he kept us all in this basement, we were all so weak… you know how it is. and one by one, they all got their strength back, returned to do their duties for our lord. i didn't. i was only good for…" she trails off.

"good for?" he prompts her.

a pause. "i'd like to go outside," she tells him, softly, almost shyly.

for a moment she thinks he is going to relent, but he does no such thing. "i'll let you out when i choose," he informs her snappishly, concentrating on the television. "scissors are still in the kitchen. bathroom's the first door on the right."

* * *

:to everything that i knew:

scissors. sharp, bright, silver. she lifts them, runs a finger along the blade. it does not bleed.

her hair reaches halfway down her back; it is thick, almost coarse, black to match her eyes and lashes and even lips when she was younger and a different person and bothered with such trivialities as lipstick.

she pinches a tress between two fingers, lifts the shears with her other hand. in the bathroom mirror she looks like a corpse: pale as death, dark circles beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

bella closes the blades slowly around the lock of hair, letting it fall to the floor. it feels like a death. she reminds herself of another bathroom, an eternity ago, when she thinks she is going to drown. her master's hands are so powerful, effortlessly they could take away her life without remorse or struggle. that was probably when she truly fell in love; when she felt the life leaving her, and her killer was a black-haired, red-eyed beauty.

again and again he tormented her, lifting her head and letting her gasp for air before plunging her beneath the surface once more. controlling, dominant.

bella slashes off a second tress, randomly, without thinking. she remembers collapsing on that tiled floor after he had finished with her punishment, crying, relieved and horrified to be alive, knowing that it is only by the grace of her lord that she still lives, knowing that he is merciful and kind for letting her off so easy. looking down, she sees that one of her arms is still a bloody mess from where he cut her in a past life; he notices the same, and heals it with a quick whisk of his wand.

"you've done well, my beauty," he congratulates. "no more tears, now. lord voldemort is proud. on your feet, bella, my lady." he dries her quickly with a spell that leaves her glistening like a gem.

as she hacks off lock after lock of tangled, knotted hair that grew to such a length in a darkened prison where she waited faithfully for the master who finally freed her, she feels as though she is cutting him away from her, leaving the one she loves in pools of coarse snarls on the linoleum. when she looks up again, her curls are all of different lengths; she looks like a madwoman, even more than before.

hating herself, she opens the door. "sirius?" she calls. "would you give me a hand in here?"

* * *

:was i one of the chosen:

when her lord leads her back to her sister's bedroom, narcissa is up and pacing back and forth in front of the window. looking up at the arrival of the two of them, she gives a smile that bella can tell is forced.

"here i leave you," their master tells them, almost kindly. "tonight i shall be delighted to make use of your services, bellatrix."

she bows her head. "my lord."

then he is gone.

cissa gasps and falls into her elder sister's arms. "i thought for sure he would kill you," she gasps, distraught.

bella smirks, seating herself delicately on the bed. "he did," she replies simply.

narcissa follows suit. she does not seem to have heard a word her sister has said. "i don't know what to do," she gasps. "i have to serve him and i don't know how."

"try again," says bella easily.

"is that what you're going to do?"

cissy's innocence, or ignorance, makes bella grin in delight. "i am destined for greater things," she announces grandly. "i know it."


	8. that which charmed me most

disclaimer: not mine.

author's notes: long time, no update. i appologize. in your reviews you lovely folks have requested more sirius/bella blackcest - there is none in this chapter, as it's pretty much just backgroud/filler, but i promise some soon, if that's what you'd like. just to warn you, this chapter seems like it's going to get very gross and disturbing, but it doesn't - i'm not _that_ twisted (you'll see what i mean).

you've also asked me for remus/tonks, for no slash, and for non-canon pairings. i will do my best. one question: this fic will not be in any way centered around slash, but are you opposed to a minimal amout of it between minor characters?

i am still very much open to suggestions of any kind. more than open - i'm actually hoping fo some.

thank-yous: to slytherincess, to lazycatfish27, and to katia. you've all stuck with me for more than one chapter, and you've all provided excellent suggestions. you're all awesome. please keep it up, and i will do my best not to disappoint you.

* * *

:brightest in the sky:

:vii:

:while freedom calls her name:

sirius is almost gentle, which is a surprise because she knows that he cares for her probably less than he does for a dog's shite. he styles her hair similar to his own, above her shoulders, which feels unnatural after years of so many locks weighing her down. he talks as he works:

"dumbledore told me all about the battle that we missed. apparently it was quite exciting. a few teenagers managed to hold their own against all your big, bad death eater friends. which doesn't say much for your kind, does it?"

she smiles humorlessly. "what happened to wanting to get to know me?"

"i was just getting to that bit," he replies with ease. "how about you tell me what attracted you to those shitheads?" his scissors nick her ear, most likely on purpose. she has to shut her eyes because her transformation is too painful to watch.

"they aren't shitheads, siri," she informs him haughtily. "they are powerful, and strong. they know magic you could never even dream of. and the dark lord… he's beautiful."

sirius snips one last bit of hair, which floats to the floor, light as a feather.

there comes a pounding on the door; it sounds more far-off than bella remembers the door being, and she tells sirius so.

"we've got two doors," he explains. "one at the top of the steps, one at the bottom. they're both locked, and after you arrived, dumbledore put up an anti-portkey ward up. there's been an anti-apparation one since the last war. not that it matters; he put all kinds of enchantments on you: tracking, anti-apparation, anti-portkey, anti-floo, fencing…"

"fencing?"

"it keeps you from leaving the village. but anyways, you clean up this mess, and i'll go see who's calling on us; the sensor didn't go off, so it's probably safe, but if you hear any kind of struggle, hide yourself. alright?" he speaks casually, as though of the weather.

before she, still fuming at new information, can protest, he departs, and she is left to clean heaps of botched hair off the floor, dumping them into the rubbish bin. fleetingly she considers dashing down the stairs, pushing past her cousin and his visitor, darting out into the sunlight, finding her master, appearing at his side once more with apologies and all the news of her enemies that she has gained over the past few days.

instead, she listens to the muffled voices as she completes her work and strides out into the hallway. sirius sounds earnest, and the newcomer calm. she hears: "wait here just a moment," and then comes the sound of sirius scampering upstairs once more. "trixie?" he hisses, approaching her, backing her into the main room. "that's tonks down there. she's brought harry to visit me before they send him back to his relatives. they don't know you're here. i need you to hide in the cupboard beneath the kitchen counter, alright?"

she looks at him incredulously. "you're fucking with me, right?" she questions softly, intently.

"c'mon," he pleads, "just do it, and once they're gone i'll leave the doors unlocked for you."

she does not need telling twice.

* * *

:never thought now would come:

bellatrix is used to small spaces. she is used to darkness. that does not prevent the combination of the two from bringing back memories best left forgotten. rather than eavesdrop on what is obviously yet another scene between godfather and –son, out in the main room, she sits curled with her knees up to her chest and thinks that life was simpler in prison.

here is how it was. she was a nocturnal creature, captive in a hellish mousetrap, sleeping when sleep came and waking when it seemed the proper thing to do. it was days, maybe months before she got her bearings in her tiny room, the walls solid rock and one all of metal bars and heavy padlocks. to one side was her husband. silly, really, how she'd never known the details of his life until he began to murmur them in his sleep. across the way and down one was sirius; beside him was her brother-in-law, and to her other side the blond crouch boy, at least initially.

morning would dawn; the tiniest bit of ocher and gold would trickle through the shaft in the ceiling, lighting only a sliver of her cell. she would hold her hand in the light and note that her fingernails were growing longer. or, she would stand up, hunched over because of the low ceiling, and stretch because after a night of sitting there was nothing more logical to do.

it would not take long for that sunlight to evaporate; a passing dementor would extinguish the beam and she would find herself living some scene from the life that was over and would never come again. she would forget that she had a lord and master to care and to wait for; she would forget power and glory and life and love. she would forget the night that was both enchanted and terrible and above all else, beautiful.

* * *

:dreamt also that which charmed me most:

here is what she forgot.

she forgot the silkiness of his voice, smooth like a snake's scales, as he said: "so good of you to join me, my bella." she forgot the way he took her hand oh-so-delicately and drew her close to him, spinning her around, gently shoving her so that she fell onto the bed like an ocean wave and lay there waiting for him. how her heart pounded.

the bed was silent, silent as he landed atop her. he could have been a phantom, recognizable only through her sense of touch. this was not what she had dreamed of; it was worse, and better. at all the right moments she gasped and sighed, and called him, master, master, my master. it might have been a dream, but for his strong hands all over her, making her tingle and shiver.

this all was forgotten. the shadowy figure beyond her bars saw to that. she was left with quite another group of memories entirely, ones which she now tries her hardest to repress, ones that marked an era both magnificent and unspeakable.

* * *

:a night within limits thus came:

it began absurdly.

in that memory, a rat-turned-man, or man-turned-rat, knelt before her lord while she stood proud and tall by his right hand. the rat knelt before them as though they were his king and queen, and if the dark lord minded this shared deference he showed no sign of it. their lord said: "welcome, wormtail. you are in a key position in this war, whether you know it or not, and lord voldemort always rewards those who help him. what can i give to such a devoted servant?"

the small, mousy man, once friend to her cousin, now traitor in the most delicious way that made her dark lips curl into a satisfied smile, met her eyes. it was clear just what he would like, and it made her smirk inside, because her lord would never auction her off as such; she was his, and perhaps her husband's, and belonged to no one else. "anything, my lord?" the worm croaked.

"within reason," the red-eyed splendor replied smoothly.

he was too shy to state it outright, and she had no intention of providing any assistance. it would be a laugh when her lord refused the prize he asked for. the worm, the rat, the traitor who stood for everything she loved but was ultimately small and ugly and nothing she fancied, gestured toward her, blushing red as a lobster.

her lord is stern, but not in the way she expects. "just one night, wormtail," he commands. "voldemort is not in the practice of sharing his possessions extensively. i want her back at my side by sunrise."

her heart pounded. she must have heard wrong. but no, her lord's hand was at her back, guiding her forward, and the look that the worm gave her was almost predatory, as he led her out of the house of some death eater or another, wrapped himself around her, and apparated them far away.

* * *

:and desire became nothing more:

she did it for her lord. she did it because it was a task he had set her, in a way, and she was not going to fail him. she did it because she did not want her head in another toilet, and because she wanted to stay in his good graces.

they – she and the rat – land outside a quaint little house, complete with fenced-in garden. he stutters as he lets go of her and lead her up the walk to the front door: "my mum- my mum won't be home f-for a couple h-hou-hours, we can't let her c-catch us, she thinks I'm still at hog-hogwarts."

in casual interest, she questions, "how did you escape the castle without being caught?"

he fumbles to unlock the door. "secret pass- passageway to hogsmeade, voldemort – "

fuming at his complete lack of respect, she corrects him: "the dark lord."

"of – of course. the dark lord met me there, brought me to that place – "

once again, she corrects him: "headquarters."

he nods, holding the door of the dwelling open for her as she enters, head held high. inside is warm and comfortable and not at all to her liking. he leads her through a door with a poster for some muggle band on the front, and into a room appropriate for a nine-year-old: quiddich posters and stuffed animals and children's books neatly arranged on bookshelves.

"so," she says easily, seating herself on his bed, "what exactly did you have in mind?" she speaks brazenly, sensually, because when it comes down to it, he is only a fourth year and she a married woman and this is ridiculous.

standing awkwardly in the center of the room, he sputters but cannot form a coherent word.

"come on." smirking, she gestures him to sit beside her, which he does, nervously. she fully intends to toy with him as much as possible. this could almost be fun.

he clearly wants to say something, but it takes him a moment, a wheezing, stammering moment, before he chokes out: "you're beautiful."

"why, thank you."

they sit in silence for what must be an hour, during which he stares at her, drinking in every last detail, and she lets him gawk, watching her fingernails and thinking absentmindedly that her shoes are rather uncomfortable. then he says: "we should leave. in case – in case mum comes home early."

and that's the end of it. it is unfortunate that the rest of them are not fourteen and not willing to simply sit and look at her. most unfortunate. but that is the price. she is bella: exquisite to the point of flawlessness; dark pearl, discovered; jewel, chiseled into perfection. she is bella: bella of angel eyes and waterfall hair and porcelain skin. there she is.

* * *

:and nightmares can be hidden:

bella is no longer in azkaban. she therefore has the ability to avoid memories best left untouched. for the moment, at least. instead, she finds herself pleasantly surprised when the door to her hideaway is opened and sirius's face swims before hers as her eyes adjust to the light.

"they've left," he says.

"that was quick."

"well, of course. more can't be risked."

unfolding herself and emerging into the kitchen, bella meets her cousin's eyes and rolls her own, a childish motion that she has been making use of more and more, recently. "quite a risk, coming to a safehouse," she counters him.

"at any time the ministry could discover that harry was not at his relatives' house, and start asking questions." he speaks as though quoting a dull lecture: one of dumbledore's, she suspects.

he seems about to say more, but she interrupts: "about my freedom…"

her cousin smirks. "impatient much, bella-boo?"

she glares.

his grin does not leave. "well, I am a man of my word. just change out of that… thing… you're wearing, and i'll let you out."

she flushes. "i haven't got anything else to wear. you know that."

for a moment he appears to silently mock her, struggling for words through his mirth. then: "i suppose you'll just have to wear some of mine."


	9. of all that i am missing

disclaimer: i do not own

author notes: i am sorry for the lateness of the chapter. bella was very displeased; she stopped by earlier today and insisted i take a break from my "across the universe" bothering and work on this instead. i have posted the said interaction in my new livejournal. (as of a few days ago, instead of posting info on updates and new stories and and whatever in my profile, i have created a new livejournal for such things, also detailing visits from various muses.) feel free to stop by. _yourlovingfeta dot livejournal dot com_

thank-yous: once more, to slytherincess, lazycatfish27, and katia. you guys rock.

* * *

:brightest in the sky:

:viii:

:i can't get over the way:

bellatrix is not pleased. she is not exactly dainty, but neither does she fit properly in the clothing that sirius offers her: grey flannel shirt, jeans that swim around her thin legs. this is a problem. if she is to escape and find her master, she most certainly cannot let him see her like this.

sirius does not let her out the door until she thanks him for the garments; she gets the feeling that after years as a captive, he is secretly enjoying his role as jailer. he unlocks each door and lets her out; "back by sunset," he calls after her.

"whatever you say, siri."

outside the door is a small parking lot, packed with those silly vehicles that muggles use for transportation. leaving this behind and entering the main street, she finds herself in a bizarre settlement, dwellings and shops huddled beneath prehistoric trees, mountains off in the distance. she has always wanted to climb a mountain, but what was it that sirius said? a fencing spell; she is trapped.

after months of living off rancid leftovers and over a decade of food nearly unidentifiable, without having to put on a show of distaining muggle edibles for dumbledore, she wants nothing more than to find herself something to eat, and realizes belatedly that she has no money. but never mind. money has never been an issue for bella. rich husband aside, she has other available methods of payment, or she did. a few paces away lies the store above which she has now made her home. she makes her way toward it, regardless of caution, with the air of someone who has nothing to lose.

there is a bell on the door that jingles as she lets herself in. the man behind the counter looks up. "can i help you, love?" he asks cautiously. she doesn't like that caution. it means that she is no better than she was in that basement.

"i'm not sure," she responds.

he watches her curiously as she paces around the shop, skirting around the muggle clientele as though they are poisoned, or dangerous. after ten minutes or so of this mindless pacing, bewildered by shiny packages of muggle food, he calls her over: "trixie?"

her head spins around in surprise. "what?" she inquires before she can stop herself.

he smiles. "i thought so. you're the one who just moved in upstairs, right? your boyfriend told me i'd probably be seeing you."

she realizes belatedly that she is not relieved. he could be ministry personal ready to take her away for all she cares. there is nothing left for her to lose, anyway. "oh," she replies awkwardly, approaching the counter where he stands. "ah, nice to meet you…" she trails off as she realizes she does not know his name.

"tom," he fills in, smiling.

this reminds her of something that she cannot quite grasp. it is a common, basic name, but she could swear there is some hidden significance there, lost in the far reaches of her memory. she nods to him.

"i suppose i'll be seeing you around, then," he says pleasantly.

"i suppose," she agrees. she feels disgusting and plain in her cousin's old clothing, hair uncombed, suitable only for making the acquaintance of such pathetic filth as this man, devoid of the grace and sensuality that used to be all that kept her apart from the rest of the world. "i should go," she tells him, turning on her heel and exiting. it is only after the door has swung shut behind her that she realizes she has forgotten altogether about food. but no matter. she continues on down the road, which quickly becomes a bridge, an ugly muggle thing, paved with cement, lined with iron railings. it crosses over a sludgy river, which nearby flows into a loch; light glances pleasantly off the water, and illuminates a green island in the distance.

reaching the other side of the river, she takes a step, and grasps disparately for a handhold to keep herself upright, suddenly overcome by a wave of pain that begins in her head and travels in milliseconds through the rest of her body. her hand comes in contact with a metal pole, which she grasps to keep herself steady, lips pressed together so as to avoid making any noise.

she looks up. the pole is a signpost; the sign indicates the edge of the village. of course. taking a step back, bella suddenly feels fine once more. it seems silly that she had assumed she would be fenced in by some harmless manor; the old fool cares nothing for her, and has said as much. sighing with anger, but complaint to the fact that until she reaches her master she will be nothing more than a prisoner, used to her status in life, she turns and starts back the way she came.

* * *

:feel how before it used to be:

in no mood to return to the tyranny of the safehouse, bellatrix instead aims for the other side of the village, past the neat, connected houses that she had viewed from the window, around a corner and down another road, this one speckled with the occasional large house amid pastures of sheep or the hairy brown cows that the area is famous for. discovering a playground, church, and a few rubbish bins, she turns around once more, displeased with her petty surroundings, not at all grateful that her new prison comes complete with sunlight and open spaces.

she can sometimes go a minute and a half without thinking of her master. this is not one of those times. his presence hovers beside her like a phantom; he whispers cruelties at her when all else is silent.

lowly, he calls her. pathetic, unworthy, mudblood, leech. she knows that his presence is nothing more than imagined, but still it feels good for his breath to tickle her ear, for his voice to say that she is nothing and will be nothing until she returns to him.

she wants him more than by her side; she wants him surrounding her, hurting her, loving her. and, logically, as at the moment she is without a plan of escape, she turns to the next best thing.

sirius is surprised by her quick return, but not at all by her behavior as she takes the cup of tea out of his hands and sets it on the windowsill, pushes him onto the couch, and lands firmly on top of him, her slim hands tracing his neck, his face, his hair. "please not now, bella-boo," he groans, doing his best to push her off without using much force, as though he is afraid she will break if shoved to the floor.

she is in no mood to play games, and pulls at his shirt, but he rolls out from under her. "is that your solution to everything?" he asks in disgust, standing.

sitting sprawled across the couch and pouting, she murmurs disappointedly: "most things."

he takes a seat on the floor opposite her. "i didn't expect better."

"i didn't think you would."

"you're just another goddamned member of the noble house of black, aren't you?"

she shakes her head. "no."

"what?"

she doesn't meet his eyes. "what i do… i don't think the family would approve." she tries and fails not to be bitter.

he appears interested. "and what is it that you do?"

* * *

:you think that you can do without me:

his question bites her. it has teeth and it hurts. she wants to share everything. instead she answers softly, "whatever my master asks of me, i suppose." her gaze is focused on her feet.

"you're not going to expand on that, are you?"

"no."

there is a pause.

"you hungry?" he inquires finally, breaking the silence.

she nods.

"i didn't think it would cross your mind to cook for yourself."

"what?" she is confused. "i thought i was _your_ responsibility."

he laughs.

"what?" she asks, confused.

"nothing. your attitude."

"what about it?"

he shrugs, and shakes his head. "i just can't believe i used to be like you."

that one hits hard. she meets his eyes. "no one is like me."

* * *

:of all that i am missing:

it is ten minutes later, and bellatrix feels ridiculous as she stares at the foodstuff in the frying pan with undisguised apprehension. she can smell the bread burning. "what _is_ it?" she asks, gazing at the thing that sirius has created.

he snorts. "it's called a grilled cheese, trixie."

"a what?"

"grilled cheese."

"what am i supposed to do with it?"

he rolls his eyes. "you _eat_ it, bella."

"eat it?"

"yes. you pick it up, out of the pan, and put it in your mouth. i understand that this many be a difficult concept to grasp, but how about you give it a try?"

"what? just like that?" she is bordering on panicky. "i thought, you know… there'd be a spatula. and a plate."

"i'm surprised you know of the existence of spatulas."

"well, mother found other uses for them." she reaches down and snatches the creation, just as sirius had said. she finds herself with an abiding urge to prove to him that she is not worthless. she is not sure why she cares.

"good job," her cousin congratulates, falsely impressed.

she remains unsure of herself. "do you…"

"what?"

"do you want half?"

he stares at her, amazed. "i wasn't aware that you knew how to share, bella-boo."

she makes a face. "don't be an arse, siri," she scolds in mild annoyance.

"why not? i thought it was my lot in life." he leans back against the counter and watches her with an easy air. for the first time, she thinks he might actually be enjoying her presence.

"maybe it's about time we stopped accepting our fates," she says, not sure if she is joking or not, breaking the sandwich in half and passing one piece to him. he accepts it.

the moment is over quickly. he retreats back to his television as though they had never spoken at all. bella wonders vaguely why this bothers her so much. all thoughts of her master have retreated until she goes to turn off the stove, a domestic gesture to which she is unused, and burns one finger on the red-hot side of the frying pan. she watches as the blister forms, making no effort to stop the pain.

she needs her master.


	10. i’ll go where the day goes

disclaimer: not mine.

notes: keep in mind that i have no beta and that i wanted to get this to you as quickly as possible.

thank-yous: to my reviewers. muchtoohighacost, slytherincess, lazycatfish27. thank you!

* * *

:brightest in the sky:

:ix:

:life went by until your name:

bellatrix has discovered that the knowledge that she is in possession of something akin to freedom is much more satisfying than the freedom itself. over the next few days she evades sirius as best she can, teaches herself to make the microwavable noodles with which he has stocked the cupboards, and reads the romance novels she finds buried at the bottom of a drawer in his bureau.

sirius's regard for her is similar, though he does make a point of saying that when they run out of food it will be she who does the shopping, and that she had better not hurt his books.

as the flat has only one bedroom, she slumbers on the couch at night, curled up uncomfortably with a fuzzy yellow blanket she found in one of the many closets, with soft moonlight streaming over the window seat.

in the mornings she likes to walk the paths at the edge of the village, through trees or fields or along the edge of the loch, just to see the sunrise. she has a feeling that sirius would mock her for such behavior, and so keeps it to herself. sometimes she'll climb a tree and pretend that she is a child again.

once, she stumbles upon a shop down a back lane, one that sells various useless trinkets for absurd amounts of muggle money not remotely covered by the few coins that sirius will toss her when he feels generous.

the owner, however, seems to pity bella her manly garments and lonely existence. the witch fakes friendship with this large, blond housewife; over a cup to tea, the woman offers bella some second-hand clothing, which she accepts quickly and graciously. alice, the woman is named. that is interesting. bella has always been fond of irony.

sometimes the two of them will walk the mudblood's dogs and discuss such mundane things as gardening or sewing. of course, bella's knowledge of either topic is slim, but she feigns familiarity.

the shopkeeper, tom, regards bella with an easy air: she buys chocolate bars off of him that taste ever so slightly like her master's lips. he sits himself on the counter and she leans up against it; he speaks on and on about his wife and children, or the weather, or the stamps he collects, or the birds that nest on islands in the loch.

every so often she will collide with sirius, literally or otherwise. he once or twice comments that she looked much better in his clothing than she does in her new attire, or that she really ought to comb her hair more often, or any such remark that he thinks will make him less appealing to her. he need not bother.

why? because none of this changes anything. her every move is a subtle step toward her master. each time her arm burns she sits for a little while with her eyes closed and pictures her lord as best she can remember him. each time, his image changes just the slightest bit: his red eyes grow angrier, his lips form and even thinner line.

* * *

:of what i should have been:

one morning, bellatrix is seated at the kitchen counter eating cereal out of the box. a large black dog sits on the floor beside her, and she absentmindedly leans down to pat its head. its fur is silky and she buries her fingers in it without thinking. they sit peacefully side-by-side for several long moments, while bella studies the photographs that sirius has placed nearby: old school pictures of him with his friends, or more recent ones of his godson. they all look so happy, especially in the photo where james potter is dancing a sort of waltz with a huge, shaggy black dog.

hang on. a big, black dog? she raises her hand quickly, as though burned. sirius looms, suddenly human, beside her.

"surprised it took you so long," he says, grinning. "i thought you knew."

"i did…" she murmurs, surprised with herself. "i just… wasn't thinking. and you're alright as a dog." she can hardly believe she just said that, but there is no retracting her words. she must be tired.

he grabs his chest as though having a heart attack. "i'm touched, bella-boo."

"aw, shut it." she busies herself with her cereal once more. the moment is over.

"you seem to be adjusting well," sirius comments casually, pulling a metal flask out of his pocket and taking a swig. "firewhiskey?" he offers.

"this early in the morning?"

"i don't see your mummy or daddy here to complain."

she takes that which is offered, and it is several moments before she grows suspicious. "why are you being so nice to me?" she inquires.

"oh… ah, dumbledore's coming to check on us."

passing back the flask, she glares at him as she strides from the room. "you can tell him i'm busy," she calls over her shoulder.

"whatever you like," he replies evenly, in a voice which reminds her that she has nowhere to run.

* * *

:but no one told you where to go:

"hello, tom," bellatrix greets cautiously.

the muggle who she has never been caught frowning as long as she has known him is wearing his customary smile. "what can i do for you today, trixie?"

bella thinks fast. "had a bit of a falling-out with, ah, my boyfriend." she gestures toward the ceiling above which sirius is probably still lurking, maybe tidying up to please the foolish old headmaster. "but you don't mind if i hide down here for a bit, do you?"

"not at all."

she climbs over the counter and settles herself down on the floor behind it.

"so…" says tom, standing over her but not in a threatening way, "what was this argument about?"

"oh, it's stupid really. he wants to get a dog."

"that sounds like a fine idea… but you don't like dogs?"

"they smell." it is only after the words leave her lips that she realizes how childish she sounds.

"oh, don't be silly," tom scolds, smiling. bella grits her teeth and prepares for a long and uncomfortable lecture from her overly-enthused so-called friend, but luckily she is saved by the sudden presence of her other muggle.

that is how she thinks of them – _her muggles_ – not her friends. they are somewhere between convenient acquaintances and personal possessions, but they do have their uses. it is easy enough to remember that this other one is named alice, for reasons that do not need explanation.

however, as alice strikes up a conversation with tom, bella cannot resist the incomplete sliver of a memory, insubstantial, a moment which she pretends to dismiss but holds deep in her heart.

"how is your son doing?" the female muggle inquires of the man.

bella smirks.

* * *

:maybe you're thinking it'll be easy:

the year is 1980 and bellatrix lowers her wand. her victim takes sharp, gasping breaths, struggling to sit up as her taller, dark-haired tormentor looms over her.

"you are stronger than i thought, mrs. longbottom," bellatrix murmurs softly, not so much sneering as looking on in pride. kneeling beside her prey, she keeps her wand firmly in her right hand but lifts the finger of a left hand to run a finger along the woman's cheek. "alice…" she whispers softly. "has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"

alice longbottom is trembling with the effort of sitting, weak after a long stream of cruciatus. she turns her head to look at her husband, but bellatrix grasps her chin and directs that round, kind face toward her own.

"you are not going to survive this, sweetheart," bella says softly, with something almost like thoughtfulness, "unless you tell me what i need to know. are you ready to share with bellatrix, now?"

it seems that they have been too harsh. the victim appears to be beyond speech; she opens and closes her mouth. she looks as desperate as a fish out of water.

"be honest with me, alice," bella continues softly. "be honest with me and i won't need to hurt you any more.

there is a thin, watery silence, filled with heavy breathing and the occasional whimper of the nearby baby.

"i asked you," bellatrix repeats silkily, "if you knew how beautiful you are." she feels powerful, in-control. until her beloved master is found, she is all that is left of him. she could do anything, now. and so she leans forward, and presses her lips, ever so gently, against her victim's.

the woman makes no reaction as bellatrix deepens the kiss, slipping her tongue inside the unresisting mouth, using one arm to keep the woman in a sitting position.

after a long moment of this, a harsh voice snaps: "lestrange." it is the crouch boy, rocking the longbottom baby in his arms but watching her with a harsh glare. "enough playing around."

bella backs away from alice, smirking in a gentle, satisfied way. "aw, you silly child," she insists, giddy and holding back a giggle, "let me have my fun."

he does not protest any more.

* * *

:i'll go where the day goes:

"isn't that right, trixie?"

bella snaps back to attention. "isn't what right?" she inquires.

"i was just telling tom how well you get along with fluffy and lucky," the muggle alice is saying with a grin.

bella stares at her blankly for a moment before realizing that those are the names of the woman's dogs. "oh," she replies cautiously, "yes. why?"

"well, i think your boyfriend is right. you'd do well with a dog. at least give it a try?"

"oh, i don't know…" bella feels trapped. perhaps the corner of the shop, behind the counter, was not the best place to hide from dumbledore. but then, in this village, it seems impossible to avoid pig-ignorant, oblivious and unintelligent muggles, wherever she goes.

"i insist," alice perseveres. "go on up and tell him that the two of you can have one of lucky's puppies as soon as they're born. free of charge. i'll even give you the first pick."

"i…" bellatrix is pretty sure that she is blushing.

tom holds out a hand to help her to her feet. without any choice in the matter, she takes it.

"problem solved," he announces jovially, guiding her to the door. "tell sirius i say hello," he says, as she makes her graceless exit. as both muggles are watching her through the shop window, she has no choice but to do around the side of the building to the door of her abode. from there, she fully intends to make for the woods behind the car park.

dumbledore, unfortunately, has other plans for her. he shuts the door behind him as he exits the flat with sirius in his wake. "i'm glad to hear how well you've been doing, bellatrix," he tells her. "shall we talk?"

"do i have a choice?" she inquires sharply.

sirius snaps, "be nice, bella."

"do i have a choice?" she repeats.

"that will do," dumbledore interrupts. "now, if both of you will follow me, i believe there is a lovely bench down there by the loch, where we might talk. will that be all right?"

at sirius's glare, bella yields. "i suppose it will," she says.


	11. and you and i are locked

disclaimer: i do not own.

notes: i haven't touched this story in so long, and i've written so many other things since then, that i might have messed up some details. if there are any inconsistencies, or whatever, please let me know. sorry for the wait. the plot will hopefully start moving forward next chapter.

warnings: torture, femslash (just a mention, i'm not going to develop it)

thank-yous: to everyone who reviewed last chapter. hopefully you haven't given up on me, and i'll do my best not to make you wait too long next time.

* * *

:brightest in the sky:

:x:

:but i still can't feel the same:

she is eighteen, and she lies on a hardwood floor with her head in her hands, trembling ever-so-slightly. her master stands over her. several other figures are nearby, but the room is buzzing and all is a blur and she is not entirely sure what is happening anymore. she is tense, because if one more cruciatus curse comes her way she doesn't think she can stand it.

"you have displeased me, rodolphus."

the words echo as though from a distance, but that can't be right. it can't be right, because it is she who is on the ground, not her husband; it can't be right, because through her fingers she can see the hem of her master's robes. she concentrates on it. if she stares hard enough maybe the world will stop swimming and she will stop hurting and her lord will take her in his arms and everything will be all right again.

"do you see what happens when i am displeased, rodolphus?"

the pain hits her like a rush of fire and she curls up as much as she can but there is no escaping it. it is his fault. it is her husband. he is the reason that her master is hurting her. he is the reason she is being torn apart. if only she could remember why –

"go to her, rodolphus."

there is a hand against her shoulder and for one beautiful moment she is sure that it is the dark lord, and he will reward her because for all these long moments she has not cried out. but then rodolphus reels into view and the look he is giving her is somewhere between concern and worry and disgust, and she hurts, she hurts so much.

and now she just wants cissy, or sirius, someone who will never try to harm her. because this was all her husband's fault in the first place, and it might as well have been he who pointed the wand at her, because it was him, it was all him. she never wants to move again.

rodolphus's fingers are warm against her cheek. "bella, sweetheart," he is saying, and he sounds like he cares, and it's so very like him that she wants to laugh. she takes an unsteady breath.

the dark lord is not done speaking. "are you sorry, rodolphus?" she can hear his sneer. "tell her. tell your wife that you're sorry. tell her that you will not question her relationship with lord voldemort again."

she is dizzy. things are coming back into focus. rodolphus strokes her hair. she needs to get away from him, but she can't move. this was his fault. it was all his fault. he is the reason that pain is throbbing though her chest, and she never wants him to touch her again.

"go on, rodolphus. say it."

her husband brushes a clammy kiss against her forehead. "i am… i am sorry. bella? i am sorry."

* * *

:here and now and then:

"...was tried and convicted."

bella is leaned primly against a tree by the side of the loch. dumbledore is talking. he strokes his beard as he speaks.

"i get the impression that you are not listening to me, bellatrix."

"hmm?" the loch is beautiful, this time of day. the sun catches it just right. maybe sometime later today she will go looking for those birds that tom the shopkeeper loves to talk about.

"as i was saying, your husband rodolphus lestrange was turned in by an innkeeper sometime last week. he was convicted as a death eater, and sentenced to the dementor's kiss."

long practice lets her keep her expression and tone neutral. "is that so?"

"yes. however, rodolphus made an interesting claim, in his last moments."

"indeed?"

"yes. he insists that it was he, not you, who tortured the longbottoms. he asserts that, in fact, you were too heartbroken over voldemort's disappearance to participate at all. you actually attempted to help alice longbottom, in the end, or so he told us."

she stares at dumbledore blankly. "and fudge… he didn't keep rodol– my husband around for questioning?"

"there was no time. the dementor took his soul before anyone could intervene."

bella's hands are clenched into fists. she leaves a moment of silence. "is that all of your news, headmaster?"

he nods his head. she wishes he'd take his hand away from his beard. "yes. that is all."

* * *

:and you and i are locked in:

1980. her wand is clenched tightly in her white-knuckled fist, but she no longer makes use of it. "tell me!" she aims a kick at her victim. she feels as though they are the only ones left in the room; they are both losing hope, in their own separate ways. the seemingly-lifeless body of frank longbottom nearby is no longer a concern.

alice moans but makes no other reaction. bella kicks again. she is too fraught with desperation to form another spell. magic takes concentration, and all she has is rage. the audience – her husband, the crouch boy, the longbottom's child – feels irrelevant. she is barely aware of any spectators at all.

bella aims another kick at the woman's chest. she gasps with fury. she drops to her knees; her wand slips from her fingers but she hardly notices; she grabs alice's shoulders and shakes her. "you know where he is… you have to know… i need… i need him… you've got to…"

bella can't hear her own sobbing.

there is a flash of light out the window, the signal that her brother-in-law has set off to warn that they have been discovered. her husband calls her name. "bella – bella, _please_ – "

the world is crashing down, and all she has alice, alice who she clutches to herself, not sure if she is crying or screaming. there are footsteps and the sound of a struggle but none of it matters because she has to find her master, she has to, and as far as she knows this woman is her last link.

it takes three strong ministry personnel to pry alice longbottom from her arms.

* * *

:just as well for all i've heard:

sirius is seated on the kitchen counter when she returns. dumbledore has left him a pile of newspapers from the past week, and he is reading one. she glances at her own face on the front page – an old picture that is in no way flattering – then opens the refrigerator. she is surprised that she can remain so composed. when all of this sinks in, she will have time to hate and to panic, but right now she just takes out the peanut butter and makes herself a sandwich.

her cousin looks up from the paper. "the infamous trixie makes her own food like a common house-elf." he doesn't sound much like he's mocking, though, or even joking. he's oddly thoughtful, as he sets the newspaper down and crosses his arms, and the room suddenly feels cold, too cold for all the sunlight streaming in.

sirius is looking at her too closely, and it makes her uncomfortable. "i don't think i have to tell you what i just read in the _daily prophet_," he says tightly. he doesn't blink as much as he should. his gaze is impassive, rather than critical.

"rodolphus was lying," bellatrix tilts her head to look up through the skylight in the ceiling. the sky is so blue. this surprises her. she is not sure why.

"i know."

there is an old bird's nest against the edge of the skylight. the sun will not be setting for a while. "i wish he hadn't."

"i thought as much." from the tone of his voice, she seems to have just passed some kind of test; and he doesn't sound angry, but he's not pleased, either.

she can't bring herself to care. the sky is so blue. it's unthinkably blue. and her husband has said sorry in the only way he knew how. but she was not lying when she said she wished he had not.

she is not ashamed of that day in 1980, or of her lips against those of the longbottom woman. for all she is sure that rodolphus was only trying to help her, it's as though he's stolen away any proof that she loves her master.

she hates him for it, she hates him for more than that, she hates him in a way she couldn't before. she hates him because she had to pretend to care for him in a way that she really only cared for her lord. she hates him because he loved her, and because she never had the chance or the will to love him back.

the glass of the casement is too thick, warped, blocking the sky from her. "i think i might go bird-watching," she says slowly. it's so blue.

* * *

:but i'll hold on one more time:

sirius comes with her. she doesn't really know why. he probably doesn't, either. they stop in a meadow on the edge of the loch. it's supposed to be the best place to see the birds who nest on the island. she peers across the water, into the trees. "do you see anything?" she asks, just to break the silence. she hates the sound of her own voice.

he looks thoughtful, but not about the birds. "i remember, one time, just after christmas… it must have been fourth year… lily comes up to me. 'do you believe in love?' she asks. just like that. i said i didn't."

bellatrix pretends that she doesn't hear him. it doesn't matter what he says. nothing really matters anymore. nothing is going to matter, until she sets things right with her master. she spots something colorful on the island, but she can't bring herself to care if it's a bird or not.

"'well, i think i'm in love,' lily told me. 'we kissed under the mistletoe,' she said. she really thought it was love."

the color in question turns out to be a tourist, who has landed a small red boat on the shore of the island. this being beyond the bounds of the village, bella feels a hint of jealousy. she is never going to get that far, never again.

she hasn't thought of it like that before. never. never. it's unthinkable.

sirius continues. "i asked her who it was. she told me. i didn't believe her, but then i saw the two of them, holding hands, on the edge of the forest. they kissed."

she is pretty sure that she knows where this is going, and she doesn't like it. even the far-away form of the ugly muggle on the island can't distract her. she looks at the ground before her, mud and grass, and tries not to think about anything at all.

"lily… and alice. it made sense. the way things just _make sense_. i thought i could see what she meant, about love." the sun is still high in the sky. sirius stares at it. "but then with frank, and james… i never found out what happened."

"come on." bella puts a hand to his shoulder, but he shrugs off. "it's getting late. we should go back."

they don't talk, on the way home. they stop by the shop, just before it closes. tom smiles at them. "lovely day, isn't it?" he questions, and he's smiling. it is inconceivable to bellatrix that anyone can still be smiling. she gathers some groceries off of shelves, while sirius and tom start up a cheerful conversation. bella does not join in.

"yeah," sirius tells the shopkeeper, "we went looking for some of those birds you're always on about. saw loads of them. it was great."

* * *

:and then someday:

around sunset, she finds sirius standing just outside the door, smoking and gazing across the car park. she thinks he'll tell her to go inside, but he doesn't.

wind blows the smoke into her face. "filthy habit," she comments, but not spitefully. she sits against the side of the building. it's cold at night, this far north, but this does not bother either of them. it could be colder. "yesterday," she says.

"hmmm?"

"yesterday, that muggle woman" it would be inappropriate to use the name _alice_, "saw me from the back, and thought i was you."

sirius cracks a smile. "you should be flattered."

"but i'm not really like you at all, am i?" she has to say it. she has to explain herself, but she doesn't know how.

he shakes his head, slightly, not negating but skeptical. "are you drunk, trixie?"

she glares at him. but then, she hadn't expected an straight answer.

"go to bed." he doesn't sound dismissive, just tired. "we can talk tomorrow."

but it doesn't work out that way.


End file.
